NICKEL MINES, Pa.-- --Walk down these winding roads and all appears peaceful. Black aprons flap on a clothesline. Boys kick scooters past apple trees heavy with fruit. A woman rides by in a buggy, two children at her side, and raises a hand in silent greeting.
There are few visible signs of the tragedies that the Amish have wrestled with in the past year - the five schoolgirls buried in white dresses, the wounded girls who have undergone months of therapy, the boys overwhelmed with guilt that they could not stop the gunman.
Today marks one year since a milk truck driver barricaded himself in a one-room Amish schoolhouse here, shot 10 girls and took his own life.
As members of a faith that prizes humility and modesty, the victims' families and friends have turned their backs on the public grieving that is so much a part of modern American culture, choosing instead to heal their wounds in private. School is closed today, and last week the Amish weren't discussing the anniversary with strangers.
But over the past year, members of the community have shared their grief on paper. In scores of letters to the weekly Amish newspaper Die Botschaft they have relived that day and reflected on the struggles of the past 12 months. Interspersed with news of the weather and crops, the plain-worded letters tell of piercing grief, small triumphs and deeply rooted faith. Taken together, they provide unique insight into the ways that residents of Nickel Mines have mourned their daughters while summoning the spiritual strength to move forward.
In a letter to the paper two weeks after the shooting, Enos K. Miller described a nightmarish journey with his son and daughter-in-law to two hospitals, hours apart, where two of his grandchildren - Mary Liz Miller, 8, and her 7-year-old sister, Lena - were taken off life support and died in their parents' arms.
"One of the ... questions quite often asked to me is, 'How's it going?'" Miller wrote in mid-November. "Sometimes I don't know how to answer that one. Then I just shrug my shoulders and say, 'I guess alright.' Then I feel somewhat guilty of telling a lie. It might be more truthful to say, 'I don't know.'"
In another letter, the parents of a semi-comatose girl described the patience needed to care for her and the joy of seeing her smile. A neighbor urged readers to pray for a family that had one daughter killed and another wounded - they had a "home sick" feeling, she wrote.
Die Botschaft - "The Message" in German - compiles the letters in an 80-page newspaper, relying on dispatches from several hundred "scribes" in Amish districts throughout the United States, Canada and Mexico. The correspondents' accounts are arranged in neat columns without pictures.
Before the tragedy, the letters from here skipped through news from the church districts - religious services, visitors, births, marriages and the occasional notable meal - while weaving in humorous anecdotes. After the shootings, they grew more personal.
In one, Miller described being at his job the morning of Oct. 2 when he saw helicopters hovering near his home. He called a neighbor, who told him about the shooting.
His first thought: "Oh, no, the two granddaughters," he wrote in the understated prose that characterizes the newspaper. "After I hung up, the strength seemed to drain from me. But somehow I could keep going."
Quick to forgive
From the earliest dispatches after the shooting, the writers from "Paradise, Pa.," the census-designated area that includes the community of Nickel Mines, conveyed the community's sympathy for the family of the gunman, Charles Carl Roberts IV. The Amish, abiding by a deeply held belief in forgiveness, quickly reached out to the shooter's relatives, visiting their homes, welcoming them to memorial services and offering donations to Roberts' widow and children.
Roberts, a 32-year-old father of three who was not Amish, lived in the neighboring community of Georgetown. He arrived at the school that morning with three guns and two knives, and police believe he intended to sexually assault the girls.
After ordering the male students, teacher and other adults from the school, Roberts lined up the girls by the blackboard, bound them with plastic ties and, as police circled the building, shot each at close range. Then he turned the gun on himself.
One Amish neighbor was with the gunman's parents when they learned what their son had done. He held them for an hour as they wept, Miller wrote in a letter published in early November.
"Henry had his arms around their shoulders while they were crying their hearts out (so it seemed) with a towel in front of their faces," he wrote.
A couple of weeks after the shooting, parents and grandparents of the victims met with some of Roberts' relatives at the nearby fire hall.
Uplifting experience
"For me, and very likely all the rest involved, that afternoon was one of the most emotional times ever in our life time," Miller wrote. "I think for all involved in that regrettable experience, it was uplifting to meet each other."
Accustomed to living quiet, self-sufficient lives apart from the pressures of the world, the Amish found themselves in an international spotlight for the tragedy and their response to it. In letters to Die Botschaft, they marveled at the many English (as Amish call outsiders) who offered support from around the world and wondered whether they could live up to public expectations.
"Are we worthy of their respect?" asked one. "It was truly humbling to hear what they think of us. Oh, let us strive anew to let our lights shine!"
The names of the victims, both those who died and those who were injured, appeared in the paper week after week as neighbors mourned their loss or charted their progress. In addition to the Miller sisters, 7-year-old Naomi Rose Ebersol, 12-year-old Anna Mae Stoltzfus and 13-year-old Marian Fisher died of their wounds. Four more who were wounded underwent surgery and therapy.
By mid-October, most had returned home from the hospital. Following Amish custom, neighbors and relatives paid frequent visits, bringing meals and helping with chores. Jerry and Susanna Stoltzfus wrote of several such visits. One girl "looked good and was fussing," and another was walking around and, despite internal injuries, "talked a lot!"
All four were back in school by December.
A fifth girl, 7-year-old Rosanna King, suffered a serious brain injury. She was removed from life support within two days of the shooting and was expected to die.
Instead, she has become a living miracle for the Amish, who found inspiration as she progressed from bed to wheelchair and began to recognize family members and laugh out loud. But progress has been slow.
At Christmas the students, or "scholars" as the Amish call them, sang songs, but did not present the traditional play. They gave each parent a red rose and then a white rose, according to Miller.
"[They] bravely went on with their Christmas," he wrote. "But it was not easy without the six girls."
The school had been razed the week after the shootings. The fathers of the schoolchildren took advantage of the mild winter to begin construction of a new school in January.
While they were building, a baby girl was born to the parents of two victims: a girl who died and another who was wounded. They named her Emma Mae, after the school's teacher, according to Miller.
"God does take and God does give," he wrote.
In late winter, Rosanna King's parents took her to Philadelphia to see whether she was ready for therapy, and met with a "big disappointment when told not yet," wrote Bennie and Fannie Zook. "It would be good to keep them in our daily thoughts."
One writer wondered whether the community could do more for her.
"Maybe we are not praying hard enough," wrote Yonie Esh of Georgetown. He seemed to hesitate at the idea. "But then again we want to say, 'Thy will be done.' If I write something that I should not, I do apologize. I certainly do not want to offend anyone."
When Rosanna returned to church for the first time after the shooting, the moment generated considerable excitement.
"She doesn't talk ... but so precious to have her around," wrote Susanna Stoltzfus.
The new school, named the New Hope Amish School, opened April 2, exactly six months after the shooting. Down a private drive, between homes and enclosed by a fence, it is more secure than the old building.
Susanna Stoltzfus wrote of that "lovely, sunny, breezy" day - "a beautiful day to dry the big line of laundry I had" - and how it reminded her of Oct. 2.
Peaceful setting
Later in April, Bennie and Fannie Zook wrote of stringing peas and praised God for "the lowly earthworms who do a marvelous job under the mulch." They had visited the new school one afternoon and found the teacher busy checking papers, they added.
"She said they have visitors almost daily, but otherwise they are back on schedule pretty much," they wrote. "The children seem to be enjoying their new surroundings. It is such a peaceful setting."
As spring turned to summer, Miller's letters focused more on the practical side of life - rainfall levels and cattle auctions, a cougar loose in the neighborhood, a stray pin that pricks him in church - but frequently mentioned his keen grief.
"Oh! How the memories do press," he wrote in late August. "Mary Liz and Lena cannot be seen again, walking past our house every school day, morning and evening."
In the letter, Miller asked readers to remember a boy being treated at a psychiatric hospital. Two of the older boys from the school have struggled with survivors guilt, sources close to the Amish said, including one who had refused to eat because he did not want to grow.
The letters chronicle several meetings between the school families and others who had experienced tragedy. A group of Amish parents from Ohio who had lost five children in a 1993 accident visited Nickel Mines to hear the families' stories and share a meal.
As the new school year approached, other scribes related complex and competing emotions: It "is hard to believe it is nearly a year [since] the school incident in Nickel Mines," wrote Susanna Stoltzfus. "But then again, it does seem long we seen those five girls."
The site of the old school, which has returned to pasture, is unmarked by memorials. Sweet-smelling grasses, goldenrod and chicory now grow there. The community does not plan a public commemoration, and sources close to the families say they planned to spend quiet days at home.
Last week, several boys could be seen running and playing ball in the new schoolyard before classes. At 8:30 the school bell rang six times and the children quickly filed inside. At recess, the voices of playing children blended with the buzz of crickets and the hum of farm equipment. The bigger boys played baseball, and several small boys chased one another by the outhouses.
Two girls stood by the school. They tossed a ball onto the roof, then stretched out their hands to catch it as it fell.
julie.scharper@baltsun.com
Letters of grief
Excerpts of letters to the weekly Amish newspaper Die Botschaft about the shooting
"Some people saw angels above the schoolhouse and we know that the Lord could have prevented this, but let's not question God's ways."
Oct. 9, 2006 Yonie Esh, Georgetown, Pa.
"Friday evening the parents and some of the grandparents met with the fifteen or so police officers. With tear stained faces, each officer was trying to relate his experience at the school. ... At a time like this, it seemed most involved had to let loose."
Oct. 30, 2006 Enos K. Miller
"Did you ever hear of lilacs blooming in the fall? Our lilac bush had one bunch of lilacs. My wife likes to connect it with the Nickel Mine school girls. So 'pure and so white.'"
Nov. 19, 2006 Yonie Esh, Georgetown, Pa.
"Took time to step into New Hope School a few minutes, as teacher Emma Mae was still busy checking papers. She said they have visitors almost daily, but otherwise they are back on schedule pretty much. The children seem to be enjoying their new surroundings. It is such a peaceful setting."
Bennie and Fannie Zook April 23, 2007
"School started today. Oh! How the memories do press. Mary Liz and Lena cannot be seen again, walking past our house every school day, morning and evening. It isn't the same, but we must move on."
Enos K. Miller Aug. 27, 2007