At the end of those rusty rectangles, the old blue tile shone white. It was the one place on the floor that the color was entirely gone. I caught my breathe as I considered the one man who had literally worn off the floor by standing there so many times, terminating tiny hearts. I thought of the violence inflicted on thousands of wombs, pried opened there. These were the marks left by the same doctor whose name was written on my bookmark, the one I prayed for by name! His entire career and most of his life had already been spent, dedicated to this work.
We were all once small as a spark, weak and brand new. Through no choice of our own we came into existence in a womb. We were all carried by our mothers. At that time, I wondered many things about my baby. Was this the brother Isaac had prayed for? Or another daughter? And if this were a son, could he possibly be that young man I saw in an unforgettable dream?
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.