I held on to my composure as our Amish guests stepped forward to express their condolences. Among the first to approach us were Chris and Rachel Miller, whose daughters, Lena and Mary Liz, had died in their arms. Murmuring a greeting to Chuck and me, they added softly, “We are so sorry for your loss.” Sorry for our loss. I could barely choke out a response. Our son had taken the lives of their daughters. And here they were comforting us! It was a moment of sudden, healing clarity for me. Forgiveness is a choice.

On October 1, 2006, my son Charlie, his wife, Marie, and their children came over to our house in Strasburg, Pennsylvania. Later, as we said our farewells, Charlie seemed quieter than usual. It would be the last time I’d see him alive.

The next day, on my lunch break at work, I heard sirens and wondered what could be happening in our small rural community. Just as I got back to my desk, my husband, Chuck, called. He asked me to come immediately to Charlie and Marie’s home. As I hurried down the stairway from my office, a sense of foreboding squeezed my stomach.

The drive was only 10 minutes, but I heard on the radio that there had been a shooting at an Amish schoolhouse nearby. Children were among the dead and injured. Charlie drove a truck for his father-in-law’s business collecting milk from area dairy farms, and he often parked right near the school. Fear clutched at my heart. Could he have intervened to help and been killed? As soon as I got to his house and pushed through the crowd of police and reporters, I asked a trooper if my son was alive. “No, ma’am,” he responded somberly.

I turned to my husband. With pain in his eyes, he choked out, “It was Charlie. He killed those girls.”

All I recall is falling to the ground in a fetal position, wailing. Eventually, we were walked to the police cruiser and driven home. My husband is a retired police officer. I could not imagine his feelings as he was escorted out like a perpetrator after 30 years of being the one who did the escorting.

Absorbing the truth

Chuck sat at our breakfast table, crying. I had not seen my strong, protective husband shed tears since his father passed away years before. Now he could not even lift his head. He’d covered his face with a dish towel to control the flow of tears, his eyes sunken and dull.

And I had no answers. Even after hearing from police what the survivors saw, I struggled to accept the reality: My beloved son had walked into the schoolhouse with an arsenal of guns, boarded up the windows and doors, bound and shot 10 girls, ages 6 to 13, then killed himself. Five of the children died.

Later, anger set in, mixing with my pain. Where were you, God? I found myself screaming out in my head. How could you let this happen? I didn’t understand how Charlie could leave his children fatherless, to face the shame and the horror. And the gentle Amish families — what darkness had so possessed Charlie that he would want to rip away daughters as precious as his own? And I felt enormous self-doubt. I didn’t know what kind of mother could bear a son who could perpetrate such horrible deeds.

The first miracle

As we sat and sobbed, I looked through our window and caught sight of a stalwart figure dressed in black. It was our neighbor Henry Stoltzfoos, whom we’d known for years. He is an Amishman, and was dressed in his formal visiting attire and wide-brimmed straw hat. Striding up to the front door, Henry knocked.

Mind you, Henry had friends and relatives whose daughters had died in that schoolhouse, at the hands of our son. Like all the Amish, he had every reason to hate us.

But as I opened the door, I saw that Henry didn’t look angry. Instead, compassion radiated from his face. Walking over to Chuck, 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.”

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