The LORD has . . . sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives . . . to comfort all who mourn . . . to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes.
—Isaiah 61:1–3
In January, I made the decision to visit each of the Amish families with children in the Nickel Mines schoolhouse. The connections formed during that meeting in Bart fire hall had stirred something in my heart. The gathering had been healing. But it was not enough. I felt that I needed to reach out personally to these families affected by our son’s actions. The warm welcome we’d received to this point encouraged me. There was no fear of rejection or anger.
By now, three months after the events at Nickel Mines schoolhouse, life had indeed returned largely to a new normal. We’d survived more “firsts.” Charlie’s birthday and wedding anniversary. Our first Thanksgiving without Charlie. Our first Christmas.
For Christmas, we’d chosen to leave Lancaster County altogether. Every moment, every scene of the holiday season in Lancaster was fraught with memories. For the children, above all, we decided it was important to make new memories as a family that held nothing of the past. So we took the money I’d been saving the last few years for the sun-room and booked a Disney Christmas cruise. A kind donor provided cruise tickets for Marie and her children. The sun-room funds provided tickets for Chuck and me, my parents, Jon and Megan, Josh and Keturah, as well as Josh’s daughter, Maddi.
The cruise proved to be all we’d hoped. Included was a stopover at Disney’s own Caribbean island. Sand instead of snow, warm breezes, blue-green surf, palm trees, and seafood were not just a distraction, but added up to so many new fun-filled memories. I could see the burdens rolling off Marie’s shoulders while the children’s excited squeals and laughter were not only evidence they were enjoying themselves, but music to a grandmother’s ears.
We were especially grateful for those good memories because shortly after our return, Marie and the children went through another loss. Dale, Charlie’s yellow Labrador, had somehow escaped the yard and been hit by a car. We went over that evening to spend time with Marie and the children. There we witnessed once again God’s grace in the midst of loss. That very day a total stranger had sent our grandchildren a gift basket. Along with cookies and a note were three adorable stuffed puppies. They’d arrived just in time to give comfort to the children as Marie shared the bad news.
For us too, it was a painful loss. We’d loved Dale. But even more, he’d been Charlie’s dog, another part of our son now gone.
Meanwhile, I was making preparations for my plan to visit the Amish schoolhouse families. One ostensible reason for the visits was to deliver a book Cheri Lovre had written on healing. Cheri has written several books and countless other resources in the area of crisis management and dealing with trauma. But she’d produced this book specifically for these Amish families, its text and illustrations designed for their cultural background. She’d sent me a printed copy for each family we’d be visiting.
I had by now contacted three of the families and set up appointments to visit. I talked over my plans with Chuck. He did not share my need to do this or feel that he could handle the personal interactions. It was a fresh reminder that we were coming to this situation as very different people. Being sensitive to each other and where we are in our healing process takes patience, insight, and a willingness to accept each other where we are.
If I still had much to learn in this area, by now I’d recognized that I needed to let Chuck heal in his own way and at his own pace. So I didn’t push him any further on the subject. Instead, I called my new friend Kate Zook, who’d so kindly urged me to contact her for any need I might have.
Kate immediately volunteered to accompany me. She also encouraged me to buy a children’s game for each family that could help function as an icebreaker. So, walking through toy aisles, I searched for games that would be appropriate to the Amish culture as well as the differing ages of the children. So many of the games our own children had played, like Monopoly or Life, were centered on goals and activities alien to the Amish. Among the games I finally settled on were Jenga, a tower-building game that uses wooden blocks, and Mancala, a game that uses beads.
I’d scheduled two visits for that first day. The first was to the farm of Chris and Rachel Miller, who had lost two daughters, Lena and Mary Liz. As Kate and I drove up their farm lane, we saw several buildings. Amish farms typically have a main house and a smaller “dawdi house,” to which the parents will eventually move once their children are grown, leaving the main house to an older son and his family. Other siblings may build houses on the family property as well. Looking around, I realized we hadn’t checked as to which was Chris and Rachel’s home.
Eventually we discovered they were living in the main house. Since we were only two visitors, we were not ushered into the formal parlor, but the kitchen, which is the center of any Amish home. The Millers had three surviving children, two boys and a girl. They were still young enough that they spoke little English, which Amish children typically learn once they start school. But Kate spoke Pennsylvania Dutch, so she translated for me while I let the children pick out a game.
It was evident this young couple was still grieving, but they welcomed us warmly, thanking us for the book and game we’d brought. We chatted easily around a large wooden table. Rachel mentioned that they had been married the same month and year as our Charlie and Marie. There were none of the modern appliances that lightened my own housework. But the simple farm kitchen was sparkling clean and radiated peace and calm.
I shared that next we’d be visiting Crist and Lizzie Stoltzfus, who had two daughters in the schoolhouse—twelve-year-old Anna Mae, who had died, and eight-year-old Sarah Ann, who was recovering from her injuries. Chris asked how Chuck was doing and why he hadn’t joined me in this visit. I explained Chuck’s hesitation about facing the families and knowing what to say to them.
Chris responded with an understanding chuckle. “Well, you won’t have to worry about that with Crist Stoltzfus. He’ll carry the conversation just fine! Chuck won’t need to be concerned.”
When Kate and I left the Millers, we stopped by my house. I looked over at Kate. “Do you mind waiting in the car while I talk to Chuck?”
She nodded, and I went inside. I told Chuck what Chris Miller had shared. He consented to go with me. Kate left us then, and Chuck and I drove to the Stoltzfus home. Here we found a very different scene: a room filled with numerous family members—too many to recall exactly—and a house filled with warmth and activity. A traveling chiropractor was there with an adjustment bench. This homeopathic avenue of medical treatment is very popular among the Amish. Grandpa was on the bench, being worked on. The Stoltzfuses have a big family, and numerous children sat around a dining table playing a board game while the rest were in a semicircle of chairs.
We’d been expected, so chairs had been set out all around the living room. Crist and Lizzie Stoltzfus, Grandma, and other family members were already gathered there awaiting us. Grandma was rocking the youngest Stoltzfus sibling, a baby only a few months old.
Crist Stoltzfus greeted us with a genuine smile and warm, firm handshake. As we’d been told, he definitely displayed a kind, inviting personality. I don’t know if Chris Miller had given him an advance warning, but he did not let the conversation lag once. He introduced us to each of the gathered family members.
By then I’d spotted eight-year-old Sarah Ann at one end of the dining table. She was working on homework with a neighbor who was tutoring her to catch up on the schooling she’d lost during her recovery. Sarah Ann glanced up at us with a shy look, then immediately looked back down. I knew she recognized us as the parents of the man who’d hurt her, and I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, so I remained at a distance while I let the children pick out a game.
After a few moments, Grandma surrendered the baby and took her turn on the chiropractic bench. I visited with Lizzie and the others while Crist pulled Chuck into conversation. To my relief, Chuck seemed completely at ease, talking comfortably with Crist Stoltzfus about the local market and other interests in common. Crist knew some of the standholders at the market with whom Chuck interacted.
As with earlier visits, this Amish family showed us warmth and kindness, but their pain was also evident. They didn’t minimize their grief at losing one daughter and dealing with the severe injuries of the other. Crist spoke openly of losing work because of spending so much time at the hospital. We were comforted to hear that the Nickel Mines Foundation had received enough donations that no family had to face financial burdens on top of everything else.
During all of this, from the corner of my eye, I could see that Sarah Ann was absorbing our conversation. When we rose to leave, her father went over to her and encouraged her to come and greet us. I could sense her reluctance, and she clung close to her father as she came forward. But she greeted us obediently, giving us a polite smile.
What a precious day that was. In my memory I can still feel the inviting warmth of Crist Stoltzfus’s gestures, see Lizzie nodding and smiling, and the sweet, timid look on Sarah Ann’s face. And to see my husband interacting freely with them—wow! Eight years later when I drop in to visit, I am eagerly greeted by Sarah Ann with a very welcoming, warm smile.
From that day forward, Chuck went with me for each of the family visits. They were not all so easy. We visited John Fisher, father of thirteen-year-old Marian, who’d so bravely asked to be shot first, as well as eleven-year-old Barbie, who was still recovering from shoulder injuries, and nine-year-old Emma, who’d escaped. John was a dairy farmer from whose farm Charlie had collected milk. The family had known Charlie. Charlie had known their children. They were more outspoken about all that had happened. How could Charlie have done this to children he knew? To a family who had trusted him and treated him with nothing but respect? We had no more answers than they, but could only share their pain and bewilderment.
Amos and Kate Ebersol, who had sat next to us in the fire hall, lived at that time in a small house with four young sons. Seven-year-old Naomi Rose had been their only daughter. The new Amish schoolhouse was being built on a donated lot within a stone’s throw of their home. When we visited them, concrete had just been poured for the school foundation. As we arrived, Amos quietly and Kate warmly welcomed us. The four boys observed us from a distance, though they were attentive to our conversation.
Then a half-grown Jack Russell terrier, a recent birthday gift for Naomi Rose, dashed past us into the house. The puppy had managed to walk through the fresh concrete. In chasing down the terrier and cleaning up the mess its paws had left, the ice was broken. Our visit that day became the first in what has become over the years a very special friendship. Chuck and I both have had the privilege of traveling and speaking with Amos and Kate in the after-years. But more on that later.
Our visit to Daniel and Annie Stoltzfus, parents of Rachel Ann, encouraged me in an entirely different way, which I’ll share about later.
I was glad that Cheri and I had an opportunity to visit earlier before Chuck and I entered the King home, which was the most difficult visit of all. Rosanna’s family was very gracious and we chatted a while. Rosanna was brought out to the living room in her wheelchair to visit with us. I recall a comment made by Rosanna’s dad, Christ, alluding to the fact that they were glad that the perpetrator wasn’t someone off the street, but that Charlie had come from a good, stable Christian home. This brought comfort to my husband and me.
These visits forged a bond between us that I will always cherish. It is a unity I would not have thought possible given our vastly different cultures. These growing relationships will last a lifetime. All things are possible with God!
I recently pulled into the Millers’ driveway for a visit to greet the newest addition to their family. Susan, a toddler at the time her sisters were snatched away, greeted me with the broadest smile and the warmest welcome. It touched my heart beyond any imagination. What could have been bleak and dark has turned into a fountain of blessing. These relationships were born out of a sinful act, but as a result of submission and obedience to God, He has made something new to be treasured.
A prayer for each of us should be, Take every part of me and bring healing if it glorifies you and furthers your kingdom.