NICKEL MINES, PA.—Along the miles of twisting country roads that divide and unite this community, people went about their business yesterday, tending acres of corn and pumpkins, ordering meatloaf lunch specials at homey diners, and browsing knickknacks at tourist haunts.
But like most everyone living here, Sam Riehl, a sturdy Amish farmer whose dark hair refuses to be tamed under a straw hat, fought yesterday to understand Monday's schoolhouse shooting and hoped to find a way to help those it touched firsthand.
"My challenge in life is to try and be peaceful," he said, gazing across his neatly tilled fields and the rows of corn drying on the husk. "I just can't imagine the chaos."
In times of grief, the Amish are supposed to turn to God and to eschew vengeful thoughts for forgiving ones. Custom encourages the Amish to dust themselves off and move on rather than steep in sadness.
But if he lost one of his girls, one of the little blondes skipping around the yard in sneakers and a black cotton frock, Riehl says he might have trouble with his community's ways.
"You have to think everything's in the Lord's hands," he said. "But I know God didn't tell that man to go shoot those kids."
Near the schoolhouse where the shooting took place, horse-drawn buggies clomped down the roads yesterday as Amish families visited friends and neighbors who had children at the school.
More than a dozen hitched horses nibbled hay outside the home of one grieving family, as people carried in stacks of black cloth and bags of food.
Verna Stoltzfus, a cousin of the mother of Anna Mae Stoltzfus, a 12-year-old victim, has struggled to explain the shooting to her four children, ages 2 to 7. She said her children do not watch television and have never witnessed an act of violence.
"I told them that God takes care of us, but he does allow things like this to happen," she said. "It's like it says in the Bible: If there were no suffering, there'd be no victory."
Stoltzfus sat in her two-story home that relatives built for her family last year in Strasburg, a town a few miles from Nickel Mines.
An ornate clock ticked on the wall behind her. She said her husband, Christ, had given her the clock as an engagement gift, as Amish tradition dictates.
Stoltzfus and her younger children, Priscilla, 5, and Steven Paul, 2, wore clothes that she had sewn from the same tan fabric.
When her elder sons Thomas, 7, and Joseph, 6, returned from school, they removed their hats and counted to 100 by 10s, their lesson for the day.
Stoltzfus sent them out to feed the hens and collect the eggs.
"It reminds you how precious you are and how tragic it would be to lose even one of them," Stoltzfus said of her children, whose beds she stood over Monday night.
"I was watching them sleep for a long time," she said. "And those families, they just won't have that anymore."
Elam Beiler, an Amish father of four boys who works in a Sadsbury Township hardware store, fielded calls yesterday from suppliers around the country wanting to know if his children were OK. They were, but his best friend's 7-year-old daughter was in critical condition.