On Sunday, June 21, 2020, 18-year-old Linda Stoltzfoos of Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania, was kidnapped and later murdered by Justo Smoker—my brother-in-law.
As you would possibly expect, my family journeyed through tremendous grief, anger, and pain. But as you would possibly not expect, we also journeyed through the challenge of receiving unexplainable grace, kindness, and mercy by the hands of the Amish community, of which Linda Stoltzfoos was an element.
The story to be told is just not just one other story of grief and healing but a story concerning the gospel. It’s a gospel story embedded within the very tangible way the Amish community poured out grace and mercy on my family—and our struggle to receive it. As a pastor for over 20 years, I even have preached the gospel countless times, but through my encounters with the Amish community, it was preached to me in a way that was deeper and more personal than anything I’ve ever encountered before.
Many years ago, I memorized Paul’s words in Ephesians 2:8–9: “For it’s by grace you’ve gotten been saved, through faith—and this is just not from yourselves, it’s the gift of God—not by works, in order that nobody can boast.” But within the last 4 years, for the primary time in my life, I’ve needed to wrestle with what it really means to receive unmerited grace when there may be absolutely nothing you’ll be able to do to make things higher on your personal. My family experienced what it’s like when undeserved mercy confronts undeniable evil, when kindness upends condemnation, when heaven engages hell.
This experience began with a knock on the door that I had no real interest in answering. I used to be in no mood to discuss with anyone just just a few hours after it became public that Justo was charged with Linda’s kidnapping. My shoulders dropped and I believed to myself, “Oh, come on. I don’t have energy to interact with anyone straight away.” Sitting there on the kitchen table, I just wanted them to go away.
What got me up from the kitchen table was fear. I used to be afraid it could be the FBI or police searching for more information or needing something else. Also, I spotted I probably should take responsibility to face whoever was there, because the choice was to attend long enough that my daughter would feel compelled to get the door. As good as avoidance sounded, I didn’t need to put her in that position. I discovered the energy to rise up and drag myself to the door.
I glanced through the side windows next to the door and took a breath. It looked like a young Amish family standing outside. I used to be immediately relieved—it’s so way more welcoming to see an Amish family than uniformed officers at your door. Then, immediately, before I reached for the door handle, other feelings got here over me that I’d never felt when interacting with the Amish until this moment: guilt and shame. I felt more vulnerable than I’ve ever felt opening my front door.
With the door opened, my eyes without delay met our neighbor, Mary (name modified for privacy). We’d never really interacted before. She had her 4 children together with her, all very young and all mainly unaware of the situation their mom had chosen to enter. Their eyes were stuffed with youthful exuberance, wonder, and interest at coming to our home. Her eyes were stuffed with compassion. I saw no pity there, and positively no anger—nothing near that. There was a direct sensation that she knew what was occurring here in a way that few did. Her presence was a present, and it immediately displaced my guilt and shame.
“I’m Mary, your neighbor,” she said. “And chances are you’ll not know this, but I used to be the teacher at Nickel Mines.”
The tears barely stayed in her eyes. As I stood there, I knew she didn’t need to say more. She knew. She knew every part—every part that was about to return our way over the approaching season, and every part we might uncover in ourselves, in our community, and in our personal faith in God.
My oldest daughter, Megan, was in kindergarten when Nickel Mines happened. On October 2, 2006, Charles Roberts entered a one-room Amish schoolhouse in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, just quarter-hour from our home. He forced the teacher, the aides, and all of the boys outside. Inside, he shot ten girls—killing five—then killed himself. Mary was that teacher. She was only in her late teens when this happened.
And here she stood, 14 years later, at our front door. In a way, it appeared like she’d just come from running out the back door of that schoolhouse. The pain was fresh, the wound was deep. But her presence wasn’t only about recognizing that. Mary was doing what so many in her Amish community did right on the heels of Nickel Mines: They forgave. Immediately. And as completely as they may. This posture of forgiveness took on various forms, and, on this moment, what it meant for Mary was that in her right hand she held a handpicked bouquet of flowers and in her left hand a small bag of homegrown cucumbers.
I hate cucumbers. But in that moment, I felt like I loved them. I almost cried over cucumbers. The cucumbers represented to me the manifestation of her deep desire to offer comfort and like to our family. What could really be said or done or offered at this point, given the gravity of the moment? Love may very well be expressed verbally, however the cucumbers represented to me a grace of somebody trying something tangible fairly than simply being satisfied with words.
And whenever you’re overwhelmed, even the smallest grace can touch the deepest a part of you.
“I brought you some flowers and a few cucumbers,” she said. “I hope you want cucumbers.”
“Thank you a lot,” I lied. “I actually do.”
I took the gifts while she remained standing on our front porch. I learned the children’ names and thanked her for coming. Then she took a breath, and with glassy eyes said to me, “There is hope. God will care for you.”
I nodded. To this present day, I’m undecided what I said in response. What she said and what she did in that moment were much more necessary. Mary gave us a present of grace together with her nonjudgmental presence, just hours after learning it was her neighbor’s family that had inflicted this Nickel Mines–like pain on the Amish community once more.
That early visit was a preview of what was to return, though I didn’t know that then. All I knew was that in our two-minute interaction, she had modified the narrative without realizing it.
In the primary narrative that we were living, we felt great shame and guilt over the pain inflicted on our community by our member of the family, whom we love. It would make sense if people around us were indignant, particularly the Amish community, and most actually Linda’s family. We expected to play the role of those asking for forgiveness, being silent within the background, having to work out the way to grieve while also absorbing the brunt of pent-up anger in our community for the long weeks between Linda’s disappearance and Justo’s arrest. That was a narrative that made sense, and that we anticipated—though we couldn’t fully verbalize it.
Mary and her cucumbers opened up our hearts to a different possible narrative, one which acknowledged the necessity we all had for healing. We all were wounded. We all deeply needed love, grace, and the gift of private presence to push back shame and guilt.
This narrative included the opportunity of hope—hope for a future which may not be as dark as the present moment felt. Her narrative acknowledged the pain that might come, nevertheless it didn’t leave us there. In eating these cucumbers, it was as if we could taste and see that love is sweet. It was the sort of love which may just have the option to heal.
Mary’s visit made me think that Paul’s words in Romans 8:38–39 could be even grittier than I had experienced in my life to this point: “For I’m convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the current nor the long run, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor the rest in all creation, will have the option to separate us from the love of God that’s in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Neither death nor life can separate us from the love of Christ? Even in case your brother-in-law takes someone’s life? Christ’s love is present in that space?
When I closed the door, I used to be holding back tears as I held the bag of cucumbers and the vase of flowers in my hands. I used to be holding love, and I didn’t need to put it down. These gifts weren’t enough to push back all of the pain and hurt—there was still way more of that to return. But within the moment, they gave life and breath and hope and kindness.
That’s what personal visits and cucumbers do. They raise our vision, encourage our soul, give us honest hope that this current sadness won’t be eternally sadness. Love lifts, lightens, and stabilizes—which was good, since the journey we were starting had plenty more to indicate us. We would wish as much love and beauty as we could find.
Tim Rogers has served as lead pastor at Grace Point Church of Paradise, Pennsylvania, for greater than 20 years and is energetic in various community roles.
Coauthor Megan Shertzer works as an adult advocate at The Factory Ministries in Paradise, Pennsylvania. Megan is Justo’s niece.
Adapted from Beechdale Road by Megan Shertzer andTim Rogers. ©2024 by Megan Shertzer and Tim Rogers. Used by permission. www.beechdaleroad.com for more information.
