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Choosing Forgiveness

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

—Ephesians 4:32

So how had the boy who had been nothing but loving and loved, the young man who’d shown so much joy in bringing happiness to his family and others, turned into the monster who had undeniably committed acts so heinous I could not bring myself to dwell on them? I slept only a few hours that night, tossing and turning, my anguish flowing out of me in floods of tears. Despite Betsy’s counsel, I found myself returning again and again to the day’s events, trying to make some sense of them.

Oh, God, this is so awful! I cannot bear that these girls’ deaths be the end of all this! I cried heavenward. However terrible this tragedy, I pray that you will bring something good out of it, that you will shine some light in the darkness that is all I can see now. If there is anything at all you can use in this situation to bring glory to you, allow that to be.

We had chosen not to watch or read the news, so new tidbits and endless analysis of Charlie’s crimes playing out on the television screen did not reach us over the next several days. But we had seen Charlie’s farewell notes he’d scribbled to his wife, Marie, and the children. His letter to Marie was lengthy and rambling. He repeatedly emphasized his love for her and his children and how sorry he was for the choices he’d made and the acts he was about to commit. But even his attempts at explanation made no sense.

He expressed remorse for events he claimed had happened when he was only twelve years old. He spoke of having molested a couple of much younger female relatives, who would have been only three to five years old at the time, and of the guilt and torment that had built up in him through the years until he could suppress it no longer. But the police had already investigated those claims and found no evidence that they had ever happened. The relatives in question had no memories of any such events.

But something must have happened to trigger his assertions. At twelve years old, he was still a child, and a sheltered one. Had there been some incident for which he’d blamed himself and then blown far beyond what had actually happened? Had some evil befallen Charlie himself back then? Had someone hurt him? If so, why had he not come and shared it with us who loved him? Why had he buried hurt and shame away to fester inside?

Whatever the truth, we will have no answers in this lifetime, for the answers died with Charlie.

But the other explanation Charlie’s letter offered was even less comprehensible. Our son and his wife, Marie, had suffered the loss of their firstborn daughter, Elise Victoria, only twenty minutes after her premature birth. It had indeed been a tragedy. Looking back now, sifting through the rambling phrases of bitterness and blame in Charlie’s letter, I can see that to my son, Elise’s death was the culmination of loss that had begun with the deaths of grandparents with whom he’d had a bond our other sons weren’t old enough to enjoy; the horrible, lingering end of the Siberian husky, Suzie, for which Charlie blamed himself; and the passing of our family pet Cinnamon.

His losses were no greater than those countless human beings have experienced. God had given Charlie and Marie three beautiful, healthy children. But according to his letter, he’d allowed bitterness and hatred against God to build up inside him. He saw Elise’s death as God’s punishment for past transgressions rather than seeing his three living children as God’s gifts. And now, he bizarrely thought that taking the precious daughters of families who prayed to the same God would be his revenge on the God he’d chosen to no longer worship, love, or forgive for what he perceived as His offenses against him.

It was not only hatred for God he expressed. He wrote: “I’m filled with so much hate toward myself, toward God, and an unimaginable emptiness.”

The one sentence in that letter that brought a small comfort was among the last: “Please tell Mom and Dad and my brothers that I love them.”

Oh, my son, how did we not see your pain? Why did you not speak to us? Why did you not share your pain and confusion so that we who loved you could help? How could you let bitterness and hatred so consume you—and yet never express it outwardly by any word or deed that those around you could see or hear? There was another way to deal with loss and pain! Why did you not choose it?

By the second day, we’d already had more than one glimpse of that other way. Our neighbor Henry was not the only one of the Amish community who reached out to our family in love and forgiveness. Though we were not watching the news, we’d already received word of the story that was sweeping the media, driving Charlie’s terrible actions from the headlines. A group of Amish leaders had walked into the yard of Marie’s parents. Every one of them had a family member who had died in the schoolhouse. But they were not there to express rage. They had come to offer forgiveness and their concern for the wife and children and extended family of the shooter. They did not raise fists in fury, but as Henry had done with my husband, they reached to pull Marie’s father—the “English” neighbor who for so many years had collected their milk and been part of their lives—into their embrace. Together, fathers and grandfathers of the victims and father-in-law of their killer wept and prayed.

“Amish forgiveness” became a catch phrase for the media in countless TV and print news stories. How could these quaint people dressed in black and driving horse-drawn buggies show such willingness to offer forgiveness to the family of their daughters’ murderer, much less the murderer himself? What was it about the Amish lifestyle, belief system, faith that made this possible?

It was certainly not because the Amish were perfect people, as their spokesmen immediately pointed out. It came down to the God they worshiped, a God of forgiveness and love.

“If we will not forgive, how can we be forgiven?” were words expressed over and over again, not only by the families affected, but by the greater Amish community across Lancaster County.

“Forgiveness is a choice,” explained another Amish spokesman. “We choose to forgive.”

But spouting theology is not so difficult. It was the actions of these Amish families that stunned the outside world. Other Amish had stopped by the Welk home, bringing small gifts to express their forgiveness and love. We too had received further visits from various Amish farmers and businessmen for whom my husband drove. By this time, financial help for the grieving Amish families was flooding into Lancaster County from around the nation. A committee was formed to handle the gifts. The Amish families insisted that part of the funds go to Marie and her children, who had lost husband and father as well as their means of support.

From violence and death, the entire world was now focusing its questions on forgiveness and grace. I had prayed that God would bring something good from this terrible tragedy, shine some light in the darkness of these events. Was this the beginning of it?

One visitor we received very early on the third day was an Amish builder for whom Chuck regularly drove. His cousins Daniel Stoltzfus and John Fisher were the fathers of several of the schoolhouse victims. Daniel was the father of eight-year-old Rachel Ann, who was in intensive care. John was the father of three girls who had been in the schoolhouse. Thirteen-year-old Marian had died. The builder was actually heading later that day to her viewing. Eleven-year-old Barbie Fisher had survived four bullets but was in intensive care, while their younger sister Emma had been the only female student to escape the schoolhouse.

If anyone had reason to want no further contact with us, it was this Amish builder, but he’d stopped by to see how we were doing. His stated reason for dropping in was to ask permission to mow our daughter-in-law Marie’s lawn, which he noticed was overgrown. But he was also concerned about Marie’s other needs. Did she have the necessary funds for the funeral? Was there anything he could do to help?

He also wanted to let us know that the medical needs of the Amish children, as well as funeral expenses, had been met through donations. He shared, too, some of the events in the schoolhouse we had not yet heard about that survivors had now shared with their parents. He told how as Charlie had been barricading the windows, one of his small hostages, nine-year-old Emma Fisher, had heard a woman’s voice call, “Run!” Responding, she’d dashed out of the schoolhouse and gone for help. No one else heard the voice, so the Amish wondered if it might have been an angel.

He told how Charlie had asked the girls to pray for him and how he’d almost changed his mind, telling the girls he was going to give himself up to the police. And how when Charlie instead chose to turn his weapon on the girls, the older daughter of his cousin, thirteen-year-old Marian, had bravely spoken up, trying to protect the younger girls, saying, “Shoot me first.” He also shared of Marian’s younger sister Barbie, who’d survived being shot four times but insisted she felt no pain. We could only hope that God’s mercy had equally protected the others from the agony of their injuries.

One astonishing episode he told us was of a woman who’d been driving down the highway just when the shootings happened. She told of seeing a rainbow stretched over the schoolhouse, though there’d been no rain. She and others took it as a sign of God’s protection stretching out angelic wings over these young girls in their hour of suffering.

These stories brought me to tears. At every point, this man expressed his love for our family and forgiveness toward Charlie. His kindness encouraged me to pour out my own pain and sorrow. When he finally got up to leave, he asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

As with every visitor, I shared how brokenhearted I was that our son Zach was refusing to come to the funeral. “Will you please pray for Zach that he will have a change of heart and come to his brother’s funeral?”

“Of course,” he responded in his soft Amish drawl. Then he added, “Would you like me to give him a call?”

The Amish don’t have phones in their homes and resist speaking on them, so this offer took me completely aback. If unexpected, the graciousness of his offer deeply touched me, as I knew how distasteful he found such technology. I finally responded, “Oh, yes, please.”

We wrote down Zach’s phone number. Later we found out that he did indeed call Zach. Zach was not home at the time, but he left a message on his answering machine, offering his prayers and love and pleading with him to forgive his brother and come home for the funeral.

Amish Family Member

When my driver Sam took me to the Robertses’ home, I was concerned to see that they were all alone. In contrast, there were thousands by now—media, family, and spectators—gathered at Nickel Mines to be there for the victims’ families. My heart was moved because it seemed to me that Chuck and Terri were suffering just as much as the parents of Roberts’ victims.

When others challenged me as to why I should feel this way, I answered, “What would be worse? Would you rather have lost a child, or have your son have done something like this?”

It is my belief that more good is going to come out of this sad tragedy than bad. After all, what is the most unjust thing that you can think of? The answer is the crucifixion of our Lord Jesus Christ. And yet what should be the most wonderful thing you can think of? The best thing that has ever happened? Our crucified Savior Jesus Christ rose again.

The funeral itself was the next dreaded hurdle we faced. What funeral home in Lancaster County would want to offer their services for such circumstances as these? Nor did we want to plan services that would conflict with or precede the shooting victims’ own laying to rest. We found out that funerals for the five girls were taking place respectively on Thursday and Friday, the third and fourth days after the shooting. In another demonstration of grace and forgiveness, the Amish families had extended an invitation to Marie and her parents, who knew some of these families well, to attend.

So Saturday was chosen for Charlie’s funeral. Chuck and I talked over the arrangements with Marie and agreed that the three of us would go together to talk to the local funeral director. By this time, Marie too had called Zach, begging him to come for the sake of his niece and nephews. They needed his support and encouragement and would always remember his absence if he didn’t come. As we drove to the funeral home, she shared his resistance with us.

The funeral director told us that at first, he was afraid we might call to request his services for Charlie’s funeral. He had the same angry thoughts for Charlie that many carried and didn’t want anything to do with his funeral. Then he thought, I hope they do call. Every family deserves the right to bury their loved ones, even in these circumstances. Why had he changed his mind? Had he recalled the memory of Charlie’s grief-stricken face as our son carried the tiny white coffin that held his firstborn, so small and light Charlie had needed no other pallbearers? This funeral director had been the same who’d officiated over Elise Victoria’s services nine years earlier. Apparently, what Charlie had done could not erase the anguish of the loving young father the funeral director had witnessed that day.

I too remembered those tears and the anguish. I had not, I realized suddenly, ever witnessed true, unadulterated joy on my son’s face since that terrible day.

I also remembered a time when my son’s face could not contain its joy. When the radiance of his happiness overflowed to everyone he encountered.

That was when we realized that our firstborn had fallen in love.