It was this boy who sought God so faithfully for the Doctor that was urging me onward. “Mom, we should pray every day. Can we pray every day?” All of the reasons going to the abortion clinic every day seemed impossible, crazy exhausting (especially now that I was pregnant) and unreasonable flooded my mind, yet I didn’t want to discourage Isaac’s eager heart.
When I look at the box, I remember what it’s like to be caught waiting in a stuck place, a laboring place wondering how things could ever be turned from death to life. I remember that in the midst of the broken, the painful, the imperfect, the Lord is present, patiently painting a picture of His heart that is ready to step in. His timing and ways mysterious and flawless, he will set us free.
I’m preparing to unpack a journey that I have been holding on to for years, and it was many more years ago that it started unfolding. It’s a story of a fight for LIFE that I’m still in the middle of. It’s a fight we are all in the middle of whether we realize it … Continue reading Dear Abortion Doctor – A Big, Beautiful Birth Story (Introduction)
Call me a dreamer, but I have awoken with a belief that true human equality should begin when a human’s measurable life begins, at conception. We can build a society that no longer obligates and encourages medical professionals to wield instruments to inflict death within a woman’s womb, by extending legal protection to the preborn, the hidden people group. Call me a dreamer, but I look expectantly for the day when we seek to gather and acknowledge all the tears. They speak louder than all my words and dreams could dare to. The tears help us find the courage to heal, the courage to reach out to all trapped by the lie that abortion is a solution. I will not be content to abandon a single soul captive to abortion. Call me a dreamer, but I believe that we can, and we will, begin to build a pro-love society—one choice at a time.
How I got this, I don’t even know. I inspect the foreign object. Horror grips me as I see what is mounted on the other side of the plaque in my hands. A baby's body, Dry and lifeless. I am looking at the misshapen face of a tiny human I will never forget, One who never once saw the light of day. Frozen, grimacing in agony. The final moments of her short life are written on her closed eyes and furrowed brow, telling me a story of injustice. I am broken. My heart sinking. There is no escape.
To my dismay, the woman is taking her place on the table, spreading her legs open, putting her feet in the stirrups, tears trickling down her face. I feel the shame of her exposure. A strong urge to avert my eyes takes hold, yet I am unable to turn away, and powerless to stop this. The same shock and powerlessness is etched on her face. This is the moment of trauma, the one they failed to warn her of. The irreversible moment before her child’s life will end. Carefully choosing his words, the abortionist had offered no baby back guarantee.
I felt my heart stiffen for fear of the sacrifice I was called to. So hard it would have been to keep them alive. Disabled twins. No one to help me. I was strong, but not that strong. In my hand I held an axe. I knew what it was for. The axe flashed brightly before me like a savior, Blinding me in my desperation. I knew what must be done. I must make a different kind of sacrifice.