One Light Still Shines: My Life Beyond the Shadow of the Amish Schoolhouse Shooting by Marie Monville
Authors: Marie Monville
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new brushstrokes on my internal landscape.
Somewhere in the midst of blending colors and creating texture, the emptiness of my life merged into the fullness of hers, and I left feeling less of an ache. She drew out of me the act of creativity, where I found a deep connection with my Creator. As the weeks went by I discovered I could trust that God, the master artist, would paint new scenery into my life in his own time.
Now, years later, I could watch as my children basked in the love of Aunt Linda, who had always been a treasured aunt, filled with such vibrancy that even as a child, whenever I was with her, I’d felt swept into a gurgling, tumbling river teeming with the energy of life. Maybe my children would feel the same.
Suddenly Uncle Jim came bustling into the kitchen. “I’m going to head over to your place now and get those bikes you wanted me to pick up,” he said. “I want the kids to have whatever they need to feel at home.”
“Be careful of the media,” Linda called as he headed toward the garage. “They’ll be swarming all over her house. Don’t let them follow you home!”
“I won’t. Don’t worry,” he called back, and he was gone.
“What will
you
need today?” Linda asked. “We’ll keep the kids entertained, so don’t worry about them.”
“The detectives will be here before long. I have no idea how much time they’ll need, but I’ll need some privacy with them.”
“Done,” Linda declared.
By the time everyone had had breakfast, Uncle Jim returned from his errand with the news that my house had been surrounded by media and guarded by police who’d done their best to shield him from the journalists. Even so, the reporters had shouted questions to him such as
Are you a relative? Where are Marie and the children? Will they be coming back? How are they doing?
I felt nervous at the thought of reporters circling my home, but I was grateful to be miles away.
The doorbell rang, and my heart jumped. I knew it was the detectives. I froze for a moment. Uncle Jim went to greet them at the front door. I heard their polite introductions, so I forced myself to my feet and into the living room despite the sudden wave of nausea that attacked me. I was frustrated with myself for feelingso overwhelmed and intimidated, but I thought that, with my parents by my side, I’d soon calm down. At least it was the same three detectives I’d met yesterday — no one new to get used to. I was struck again with how professional and polite they were.
“Mrs. Roberts, is there a private place we can talk?”
“Yes, you can meet upstairs in the sitting room,” Aunt Linda said. She led the way and the rest of us followed. But the last detective in line stopped and said to my mom, “I’m sorry — we need to speak with Marie alone.”
My stomach dropped. I hadn’t anticipated this. But what could I do? Linda led us into the guest room where she’d already closed the sofa bed she and Jim had slept on, making it a cozy little sitting room. She shut the door behind her as she left.
I was trembling. I felt small.
Just sitting in the same room with three detectives in dark suits is nearly overwhelming to me.
During my high school driver’s education class, the instructor made one statement I’ve never forgotten: “If a police officer follows you for two miles, he can find something to pull you over for.” I don’t know if that’s accurate, but it became the truth to me — to the point that even as an adult, if I noticed a police car behind me, I would turn and go a different way than I had planned. I didn’t want to be pulled over! I’m afraid that this attitude of fear of the police heightened my anxiety as we took our seats.
What am I so afraid of?
I demanded of myself. But I knew the answer. These men would tell me things I didn’t want to hear. They would make the murders real. Also, they would want me to help them understand Charlie’s motive; they would be looking for explanations,
Somewhere in the midst of blending colors and creating texture, the emptiness of my life merged into the fullness of hers, and I left feeling less of an ache. She drew out of me the act of creativity, where I found a deep connection with my Creator. As the weeks went by I discovered I could trust that God, the master artist, would paint new scenery into my life in his own time.
Now, years later, I could watch as my children basked in the love of Aunt Linda, who had always been a treasured aunt, filled with such vibrancy that even as a child, whenever I was with her, I’d felt swept into a gurgling, tumbling river teeming with the energy of life. Maybe my children would feel the same.
Suddenly Uncle Jim came bustling into the kitchen. “I’m going to head over to your place now and get those bikes you wanted me to pick up,” he said. “I want the kids to have whatever they need to feel at home.”
“Be careful of the media,” Linda called as he headed toward the garage. “They’ll be swarming all over her house. Don’t let them follow you home!”
“I won’t. Don’t worry,” he called back, and he was gone.
“What will
you
need today?” Linda asked. “We’ll keep the kids entertained, so don’t worry about them.”
“The detectives will be here before long. I have no idea how much time they’ll need, but I’ll need some privacy with them.”
“Done,” Linda declared.
By the time everyone had had breakfast, Uncle Jim returned from his errand with the news that my house had been surrounded by media and guarded by police who’d done their best to shield him from the journalists. Even so, the reporters had shouted questions to him such as
Are you a relative? Where are Marie and the children? Will they be coming back? How are they doing?
I felt nervous at the thought of reporters circling my home, but I was grateful to be miles away.
The doorbell rang, and my heart jumped. I knew it was the detectives. I froze for a moment. Uncle Jim went to greet them at the front door. I heard their polite introductions, so I forced myself to my feet and into the living room despite the sudden wave of nausea that attacked me. I was frustrated with myself for feelingso overwhelmed and intimidated, but I thought that, with my parents by my side, I’d soon calm down. At least it was the same three detectives I’d met yesterday — no one new to get used to. I was struck again with how professional and polite they were.
“Mrs. Roberts, is there a private place we can talk?”
“Yes, you can meet upstairs in the sitting room,” Aunt Linda said. She led the way and the rest of us followed. But the last detective in line stopped and said to my mom, “I’m sorry — we need to speak with Marie alone.”
My stomach dropped. I hadn’t anticipated this. But what could I do? Linda led us into the guest room where she’d already closed the sofa bed she and Jim had slept on, making it a cozy little sitting room. She shut the door behind her as she left.
I was trembling. I felt small.
Just sitting in the same room with three detectives in dark suits is nearly overwhelming to me.
During my high school driver’s education class, the instructor made one statement I’ve never forgotten: “If a police officer follows you for two miles, he can find something to pull you over for.” I don’t know if that’s accurate, but it became the truth to me — to the point that even as an adult, if I noticed a police car behind me, I would turn and go a different way than I had planned. I didn’t want to be pulled over! I’m afraid that this attitude of fear of the police heightened my anxiety as we took our seats.
What am I so afraid of?
I demanded of myself. But I knew the answer. These men would tell me things I didn’t want to hear. They would make the murders real. Also, they would want me to help them understand Charlie’s motive; they would be looking for explanations,
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