19
Anniversary
Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will be joyful in God my Savior.
—Habakkuk 3:17–18
Anniversary Letter From Chuck and Terri to the Amish
September 27, 2007
Dear _______,
As we are approaching the anniversary of this fateful day, there is much emotion that enters our thought processes. We still have unanswered questions. We still deal with the not knowing why this took place. I must say that the name you have given it, “The Happening,” has been a comfort to us. The sting of the severity of the incident has been taken away somewhat by the way all of you have responded. We know that each of you deals daily with reminders and sorrows, some of which will always be with you. The fact that we are all going on in our daily lives is a tribute to our God who gives us grace and mercy beyond human understanding.
Each of you has become a testimony to us and to the world. The forgiveness you show in no way minimizes our understanding of the heartache inside. As the year progressed and we were able to get to know each of you just a little, it has helped in our healing and we believe also in yours. Your families are dear to our hearts. We so appreciate how you have allowed us to be a part of your lives in this restorative process. Moments of sorrow are often lifted by our remembrance of each of you and the prayers of so many.
Your coming to our home this past summer was a great joy to us. That day will be forever etched in our hearts. As time goes on, we hope we will have occasion to gather again. The tea with your girls was a precious time for me, and they seemed to enjoy it very much. I look forward to it being a yearly event. Perhaps in November we could have a tea for the ladies while the children are in school. It helps so to get together and talk. Our communication isn’t frequent, but it is very meaningful to us.
We will be away next week but will be keeping you lifted in prayer. Habakkuk 3:17–18: “Though the fig tree does not bud and there are no grapes on the vines, though the olive crop fails and the fields produce no food, though there are no sheep in the pen and no cattle in the stalls, yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will be joyful in God my Savior.”
We thank the Lord for the gracious friendship you have offered us. Our thoughts and prayers are with you always,
Chuck and Terri Roberts
When it comes to my family, I worry about problems. I mull them over. I want to fix them. Make sense of them. Which makes me, I guess—a mother! I had come to peace and surrender. I no longer doubted God’s love or my heavenly Father’s ability to redeem human evil to His own good purposes.
But my mind still picked at the why of what Charlie had done. It was beyond my ability to grasp how a human mind could even envision, much less carry out, such things. I would mull over memories of my son from before the tragedy and try to figure out how or at what point his mind could have started separating from a normal way of thinking to becoming so depraved.
One event that came to mind was a school shooting at Platte Canyon High School in Bailey, Colorado, just five days before my son took his life and others’. I wondered if this was where Charlie had gotten the idea. I’d read commentary that if the news didn’t portray so much about an incident, perhaps there would not be so many copycats. The parent in me wanted to believe Charlie had not been carrying these thoughts long-term. But when I checked details with the state police, I discovered that my son had purchased the items used in the attack well before the Platte Canyon incident.
I found myself scrutinizing other such events. Years later, Adam Lanza, the young man who perpetrated the Sandy Hook school shootings, would be among those I analyzed. I saw certain common denominators. Like my son, many of the perpetrators had struggled with severe learning disabilities. They were introverts, quiet and withdrawn at times.
Most had come from normal, caring homes and had been normal, well-behaved, even affectionate children. How does a person turn from a happy child to a man capable of atrocity? Several such perpetrators had been diagnosed as bipolar or schizophrenic. My son had been at a typical age for such disorders to emerge. Had his quietness those last years masked darker symptoms? Do such mental debilities stem from physical pain, mental stress, emotional trauma, physical trauma—or a combination of all of these?
When I thought of physical and emotional stress, I thought back to those first months of unraveling casts from Charlie’s club feet and hearing him scream. What effect could that have left on him? In more recent years, I’ve met and prayed with people struggling with just such dark thoughts and mental disorders. How many people out there are in such deep darkness that they simply cannot see the light? How much of such darkness is spiritual, and how much is mental and physical malady?
I have not found answers, nor am I knowledgeable enough to address such issues. But I want to understand the pain within a mentally disturbed mind and to do whatever is within my grasp to pull those drowning in darkness toward the light. At the same time, I’m not one to look back and find excuses for wrongdoing. Life can too easily become a game of blaming our decisions on outside factors. Whether driven by rage and despondency or acting intentionally, we are responsible for our actions. Whatever the darkness into which my son and others descended, I believe that for each there came a moment when they had opportunity to turn away from evil or to embrace it.
Such a moment was described by the surviving Amish girls when Charlie asked them to pray for him. My heart still breaks that he did not choose differently at that moment. My heart aches for family members currently struggling to recognize and cope with such mental and emotional sickness in a loved one. May we as a society come together to give better support to our neighbors who are dealing with such situations. If even one more Nickel Mines, Platte Canyon, or Sandy Hook tragedy can thereby be prevented, it will be worth the investment.
Though I could not keep my mind from returning to such questions, I made every effort to keep them from dominating my thoughts and my life. The bond of friendship that the Amish had extended to our family had become my greatest comfort as the months went on. I wanted to do something to show my appreciation and gratitude. Lancaster County was experiencing beautiful summer weather that July of 2007, so I thought of a picnic in our backyard. My sister, Jean, who lived adjacent to us, had a nice outdoor pool. I knew that was one amenity the Amish families did not have accessible to them.
While I was excited about my idea, I wasn’t so sure the Amish families would feel the same. I asked several of them if they felt such an invitation would be appropriate. They were enthusiastic, so I sent out invitations. At Amish get-togethers, it is the custom for everyone to bring along all kinds of delicacies. But I wanted this to be our treat, so I asked them to bring only swimsuits for the children.
To my delight, every family who’d had a son or daughter in the schoolhouse agreed to come. The day of the picnic dawned warm, but perfect. What excitement I felt as a yellow school bus and three vans filled with Amish pulled into our driveway. Among the arrivals was six-year-old Rosanna in her wheelchair. Pastor Dwight and his family, our son Josh and his wife, my sister, Jean, and her husband, along with a few friends, all joined us.
We proceeded to the backyard. Following Amish tradition, the women gathered in one area of the yard, the men on the other side. The food we’d set out was ordinary picnic fare along with fresh fruits and salads. I asked if we could pray a blessing over the meal. One of the fathers immediately asked that we respect their tradition of silent prayer, so we did.
Our backyard was soon alive with chatter and laughter. The boys quickly jumped into the pool. The girls in their sky-blue, purple, and green dresses ran around playing croquet and other games. I joined the women. I still had difficulty matching all the names to faces I’d seen that first day at the Bart fire hall, but I’d come to know the mothers at least through our family visits. I remember visiting with the mother of Esther, one of the survivors. I’d discovered she was a single mother. Her husband had been killed sometime earlier in an accident. How much can one family endure? I grieved. But she was pleasant and smiling as she told me how Esther’s injuries continued to heal.
Rosanna looked so sweet and pretty cuddled in her mother’s arms. I asked Mary Liz if I could hold her. She immediately settled Rosanna on my lap. I sang to her one of the songs I sing to my grandchildren. The movement of her eyes and her smile indicated some response.
If I’d wondered whether the outing was a good idea, by day’s end it was abundantly clear the entire group was enjoying the interaction as much as I was. A special blessing was to see Chuck, as well as my son Josh and his wife, Keturah, laughing and talking with our visitors. As the Amish families prepared to leave, one of the boys, Aaron Jr., who at age thirteen had been the oldest boy in the schoolhouse, came up to me.
“Mrs. Roberts, thank you for inviting me to your home,” he said with a huge smile on his face. “I had so much fun.”
If he only knew how much that statement meant to me that evening! To think that this young man who’d undergone such turmoil due to the actions of my son could come to the home in which Charlie had been raised and say to his mother, “I had so much fun.” What a healing moment it was for me, and I hope it was for him as well. God would eventually use Aaron Jr. in a very special way in my own life as well as others’. I am so thankful to have met him personally that day.
It was well after dark before our guests piled back into the school bus and vans. We waved our good-byes, knowing this was not an ending, but the beginning of relationships that would extend well into our future.
My next interaction was actually prompted by the picnic. It hadn’t occurred to me in my planning that girls do not swim with boys in the Amish culture. Watching the boys frolicking around my sister’s pool, I determined the girls should not have to miss such a fun experience. My mind flashed to a formal tea a dear friend had hosted to cheer me up when I was going through cancer. What if I hosted such a tea just for the girls?
So a few weeks later, in August, I invited over all the girls from the new Amish schoolhouse—the five survivors as well as the new transferees. I borrowed an octagonal table and fancy tablecloth, which I set up in the sun-room. The table was set with antique vases filled with fresh flowers, cloth napkins and cherub napkin rings, fine china and fancy teapots. A friend of mine, Anne Petersheim, had researched each of the girls’ birth dates. She purchased china cups and saucers engraved with each girl’s birth month. My sister, Jean, and her daughter Serena pitched in to make goodies. Anne Petersheim and my friend Delores volunteered as clean-up crew.
Once again we enjoyed perfect weather with an ever so slight breeze and a not-too-humid, warm day. All the girls except one were able to come, along with their teacher, Emma Mae, and one of the mothers. My own mother came as well. None of the Amish girls had been to a formal tea. Their eyes grew wide as they took in the tables and fancy dishes.
I’d based my menu on an English afternoon high tea. Peach Mango and English Breakfast teas steamed in the teapots. We began with a fresh fruit cup. Next the girls had a choice of chilled cucumber or cantaloupe soup. Then came an array of tea sandwiches—tomato/cucumber, carrot/beet, mock-salmon, egg-and-olive, strawberry cream cheese, and peanut butter and jelly. Topping off the menu were mouth-watering English scones served with clotted cream, an assortment of jams, and homemade lemon curd.
The girls were a little uncertain over some of the unfamiliar fare offered, but they sampled it all graciously and devoured the more familiar peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and scones. They were excited to discover they’d be able to take their own teacup and saucer home. They were just as excited to jump into the pool. Such giggles and joyful sounds came from the bedrooms as they changed into their swimming gear. Such long, beautiful hair and so many hairpins!
Rosanna had come later than the rest after her physical therapy. I was touched by the love and concern the other girls showed Rosanna, always making sure to include her in what was going on. Though she napped through much of the tea party, she woke up enough to be a part of the swim party. Holding her in my arms so that she could dangle her feet in the water, I sang her one of the lullabies I’d sung to my own children and grandchildren. I will never forget her smile as I sang. Or hearing for the first time her soft, delighted chuckle at the antics of my sister Jean’s daughter Serena, who’d joined the Amish girls in the pool. Or the singing of the other little girls as they splashed, as sweet as an angel chorus.
Oh, the joy I felt that day in seeing such normal behaviors exhibited by these precious girls who’d undergone so much trauma less than a year before. Could our heavenly Father really provide so much healing in such a short time? The evidence was before my eyes.
My heart overflowed with rejoicing and thankfulness that day. Thankfulness for the special time we had experienced. Thankfulness for parents who were willing to allow their precious daughters to come to our home. Thankfulness for how God was continuing to work in all our lives to take what should not have been and bring about something good and new.
Our girls’ tea became an annual tradition for the next five years. When we finally quit, it was because the girls were growing up. One by one, they graduated from school and went on to jobs and new lives. Though I hated to see the tradition end, I recognized that season of life had ended for the girls and for me.