5
Invasion

I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. . . . Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

—Lamentations 3:19–23

The doorbell ended any further introspection. My friend Delores, with whom I’d eaten lunch—was it really only a few hours ago?—and her husband, Mike, both of them co-workers at Sight & Sound Theatre, were the first to arrive, then some of our closest friends from church. With each new arrival there were hugs, prayers, tears. And with each we tried to offer some kind of explanation.

I longed for quiet and solitude to process my own thoughts and grief. But I also craved the distraction of people swirling around me, the bustle of serving hot drinks, accepting gifts of food, greeting one visitor after another, all the welcome commotion with which our culture tries to alleviate the pain of sudden loss. Mike, Delores, Joe, Barb, Nate, Jean, Randy, Melissa, Serena, Eric, Tyler, Pastor Dwight, Dan, Pastor Stewart, Betsy, Henry, and many more—thank you all for being God’s angels of grace and healing to us that day.

Far less welcome were media personnel now swarming the perimeter of our front yard. Vans with the call letters of local and national TV and radio stations lined the shoulder of the road. News crews hoisted huge cameras and thrust microphones at visitors as they stepped out of their cars. We’d made it clear that reporters were not welcome at our door or trespassing on our lawn. But as visitors found parking along the street and walked up to our house, the newspeople called out questions and waylaid anyone willing to stop.

Why can’t they leave us alone? I wailed mentally. They were only doing their jobs, I knew. But the invasion of our private mourning and worry about how they might be portraying our son and our family hammered at my head and heart until I felt sick.

I considered going out to make a brief statement. Maybe I could give another side to the story. What could I have said in the face of the day’s events? But Chuck, well-experienced in dealing with the media, and always my protector, immediately stepped in to prevent me.

Soon my parents drove up, and the news crews rushed toward them. My mother, always outgoing and friendly, paused as a question was shouted out. Someone thrust a microphone to catch her answer. Instantly one of our visiting friends placed himself between the reporter and my mother, shepherding her and my father inside the house.

My mother was grateful for the intervention. I don’t know what she saw in my expression as she hugged me. But I will never forget the anguish in her eyes as she looked at my dear friend Delores: “Delores, I have always been there for my daughter. But I can’t now. I am too weak. Can you be there for her? She is so fragile.” I felt as vulnerable as a crystal vase slamming into concrete.

Chuck had already called our youngest son, Jon, and his wife, Megan, who had been married just a year, to let them know what had happened. Jon had always looked up to his big brother and was, of course, devastated.

By now Chuck had also managed to contact our second son, Josh, who was in Louisiana on a reconstruction project. But I was the one who called Zach, our third son, who was living in Manhattan. He’d been away from home for several years by this time, first in Florida, where he’d attended film school, and then New York. While our other sons joined us for every holiday and many family activities, Zach had been unable to travel home often in recent years.

Our sons were not close in age. Josh was born three years after Charlie, Zach five years, and Jon was almost a decade younger. But once they reached adulthood, they seemed to enjoy each other’s company when they were together. So I was stunned when Zach replied angrily to the news. He knew more of the day’s horror than I did, the details having already been broadcast all over New York.

When I told him I’d let him know the service arrangements as soon as I knew them, he responded vehemently: “I will not be coming to my brother’s funeral. I hate him for what he’s done—to those girls, to our family. I will not honor him by being present!”

I cried and pleaded, but it only intensified Zach’s resolve. Before the call ended it was obvious that no amount of begging from his mother was going to change his heart and mind.

I was heartbroken. Chuck and I needed our sons with us to face the next days and, above all, Charlie’s funeral. Marie’s children adored their Uncle Zach. They needed his presence too. But Zach had made it clear he would not be moved. How could I ask him to forgive his brother when I was struggling with how I could forgive Charlie myself?

There was one thing I could do. Though I could barely choke out a prayer myself, I began asking everyone who walked through the door to pray for Zach. Especially that he would change his mind and come home in time for his brother’s funeral.

Through all this, Chuck had been a pillar of strength to me, doing whatever needed to be done, dealing with law enforcement, visitors, and the media. But when there were no new crises to tackle, he slumped down at the breakfast bar, his head low, tears streaming unchecked down his face. I knew the shame and guilt that were overwhelming him because I felt it too. Our son had done this thing. Though we were not the perpetrators, we had given birth to him, had raised him. All the reputation for integrity, honorable living, and Christian charity for which the Roberts name had been synonymous in this community had been swept away.

Beyond the influx of visitors, our phone had not stopped ringing all day. Among the callers were police officers with whom my husband had worked for so many years. They were calling to express support and encouragement, but my husband could not even take their calls. The shame and embarrassment were too great. His palpable grief and pain were as inconsolable as the biblical King David’s mourning of the death of his own traitorous son, Absalom, and I knew my husband’s heart held the same agonized cry: “O my son [Charlie]! My son, my son [Charlie]! If only I had died instead of you—O [Charlie], my son, my son!” (See 2 Samuel 18:33.)

My heart broke for my husband, but there was nothing I could do to ease his pain. Then, as though God himself were reaching down from heaven with a comforting touch, I watched a miracle unfold. Through the window I caught sight of a stalwart figure dressed in black. It was our neighbor Henry Stoltzfoos, whose father, Jake, had sold my parents the land on which our house stood. He was dressed in his formal visiting attire and wide-brimmed straw hat.

Striding up to the front door, Henry knocked. Outside, the newspeople had already jerked to full alert, curious as to why an Amishman would be knocking on a Roberts’ door on this day of all days. Surely there must be a story here!

I wondered too. Henry was part of the Amish community. He had friends, even relatives, whose daughters had died in that schoolhouse. Like all the Amish, he had every reason to hate us right now. All the years of peaceful coexistence as neighbors, working together with my husband to provide transportation for the Amish, would count for nothing now.

But Henry didn’t look angry as we welcomed him into the house. Instead, compassion radiated from his face. Walking straight over to Chuck, who still sat slumped at the breakfast bar, he put one hand on his shoulder. The first words I heard him speak took my breath away: “Roberts, we love you. This was not your doing. You must not blame yourself.”

Henry: The Beginning of Forgiveness

I’d known the Roberts family for a long time. Back in the early seventies, when Terri’s parents bought the lot next to our house from my father, Terri’s younger sister Jean and I used to ride our horses together. Their horse barn was my first construction assignment. Later, when Terri and her family built their house on the neighboring spot, I saw her boys grow up, playing in the yard. Sometimes we would come over to swim in their pool. In the spring of 2006, Roberts—that’s what I call Terri’s husband—started doing taxi work for me. He was the driver for our youth singing activities. We became friends during our many drives, sharing a bit of our personal lives. I remember him telling me he had a son who drove a milk truck.

On October 2, 2006, I was at my shop building furniture when I heard the news about the shooting. A little later, my son Aaron came home and told me that the gunman was Terri and Roberts’ oldest son. My first reaction was that they must have gotten the names mixed up. This just couldn’t be right! When I saw the media trucks starting to flock outside their house, I realized that it must be true.

I’m a board member of the three Amish schools in the area. We decided as a board to have a talk with our teachers that same afternoon to calm them down and show our support. Before we went over there, I thought I should go down to see Terri and Roberts. But when I saw how many media trucks were outside, I thought maybe this wasn’t such a good time. We met with the teachers. When the driver let me off at my house, I again started across the road to the Roberts’ house. But I felt very weak, like I wasn’t going to be able to go through with it. Changing my mind, I headed toward my own driveway instead.

I started up the quarter-mile driveway and the good Lord was telling me, “You need to go talk to Roberts.” So I turned around. I felt weak and turned away from Roberts’ house. When I turned away I would get weaker yet. I went toward Roberts’ house. That gave me more strength. When I turned toward Roberts’ I felt weak, but not as weak as when retreating back up my long lane.

At last I stood at their door and knocked. I almost walked away again. What am I doing here? I thought to myself. Then I saw somebody peek through the window.

“It’s an Amishman!” the person exclaimed. A man responded, “Let him in.”

When the door opened, I saw a good number of people inside—friends and family members—and various conversations going on everywhere. But it was Roberts himself who caught my immediate attention. I had never heard a man cry so loud. He was completely bent over, his head on the counter, a cloth in his hand soaked with tears. I have boys myself, and I tried to imagine how I would feel if it had been one of my boys. Walking up to him, I started to gently stroke his shoulders, not saying anything. I did it to comfort him, but I also needed something to hold on to because my legs were shaking and my heart was beating so hard. I stood there for a good five minutes, neither of us saying a word.

Then suddenly Roberts began to speak. It was not a cry of self-pity. He was crying for everyone but himself: “All those poor mothers. All those poor grandmothers. Those poor, poor parents. All those poor children. Those poor teachers.” He continued repeating over and over every possible victim of the tragedy. “And my baby boy I loved so much. If he would have just shared with me how bad he felt. My baby boy. I just wish I could have been a better father. We can’t stay here. The only thing left to do now is to move as far away from the Amish as we can.”

He finally broke off. But after a moment of silence, he started the circle again, repeating what he had just said. Then again, and again. After a good half hour, I found the strength to interrupt him. “Roberts, I think the devil used your boy. It wasn’t your boy. It was the devil who used your boy.”

For the first time that evening, Roberts lifted his head from the counter to look at me. “Do you really think that’s what it was?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think the devil used your boy.”

“Thank you, Henry,” he answered. It was like a sparkle of hope was ignited in his eyes.

Up until this point I had felt completely helpless. Now my strength came back to me. It was the Lord God who brought hope to Roberts, not me. The good Lord sent me there and was talking through me. I think this was the beginning of forgiveness.

For more than an hour, Henry stood by my husband, consoling him and affirming his love and forgiveness. Above all, Henry kept reassuring Chuck that there was no reason for us to move. The Amish did not hold Chuck or any of the Roberts family responsible for Charlie’s actions. By the time he left, my husband was sitting up straight, some of the burden clearly eased from his shoulders. For Chuck, it was not only the beginning of forgiveness, but also of healing.

To this day I call Henry “my angel in black.” His act of grace and forgiveness in the face of the terrible loss he and his community had just endured had an impact that cannot be measured. Not just on our family, but on so many others who came to hear the story, including the media, who seized on this story as far more interesting—and puzzling—than the original tragedy itself. Nor was Henry’s gesture unique. Over the next weeks, we would encounter repeatedly gifts of love, forgiveness, and acceptance from the Amish community.

And above all, at Charlie’s funeral. But I will tell that story later.

For my part, I was still battling the devastation of Zach’s refusal to come to the funeral. My family was crumbling around me. The world in which I stood kept shifting from reality to non-reality and back again. This could not be happening. And yet it was. This was surely not real, but a nightmare from which I would awake. But no, it was real. I was awake.

A special comfort came when my nephew Travis stopped by.

“Aunt Terri, you were a good mom,” he kept assuring me. “You are a good mom.”

“What kind of mother could I have been?” I asked painfully. “How can this be? What did I miss that this could have happened?”

“Don’t say that!” he responded. “You were a good mom. Such a good mom, I often wished you were my mom.”

Another nephew, Nate, reiterated the same sentiments. He asked if he could sing to me, then sang a wonderfully comforting inspirational song he’d composed.

And then my friend Betsy offered me comfort that has remained with me. My own personal “day one” hero, Betsy is a counselor from the church my brother attends, Calvary Monument Bible Church. During her visit that first evening, we stood together in the family room.

“How old was your son?” she asked.

“He would have been thirty-three in two months,” I told her.

“And from everything I’ve heard, he was a wonderful son to you.”

“Yes, he was an absolutely wonderful son,” I responded. I did not want to minimize the evil that Charlie had done. But the truth was that every person who’d shared their memories of Charlie that day had reiterated the son we knew—a quiet, soft-spoken man, but a man who was kind, honest, hardworking, and loving. Certainly no one inside or outside his family had ever glimpsed any reason to be afraid of him. The mental anguish and turmoil he’d expressed in his suicide notes, the reasons he’d given for harboring anger and bitterness against God—did that completely obliterate all we’d seen and known of Charlie for the past thirty-two years?

As though she’d read my mind, Betsy went on: “What happened today was a tiny slice of your son’s entire life. When your mind goes there, don’t stop. Let it go back further to the thirty-two years of wonderful memories you have. Refocus on those memories, not the events of this day.”

Her advice was such a consolation to me as well as a great support in the days ahead, even to the present. My mind does not go to the events at the school as often now, but when it does, I don’t try to stop it. I can never ignore what happened. The devastation of that day will never go away, and its effects of loss, pain, and sorrow are still being felt by the families involved. But when I do remember that day and still shed tears over those memories, it has been greatly helpful and healing to follow Betsy’s recommendation and take my thoughts further back, to flood my mind with wonderful memories of the times we had as a family. Charlie was not perfect, and the choices he made in the last hours of his life were dark and twisted beyond my understanding. But for more than three decades he’d been a loving and loved son. And that was the gift Betsy gave back to me that night.

As Betsy left that evening, I allowed my mind to drift back again over the years. This time not to my own beginnings, but to Charlie’s.