I hope that the letter I wrote four years ago speaks to a truth you have kept silent deep within your heart. That you have seen the same tears of the women who choose abortion, even more than I, that you have cried your own tears and desire peace for your own heart even more that I can desire it for you ...
The letter would be mailed out on the last day of the 40 Days campaign which would fall on 3-20, the address of the clinic. It was then that I felt the address was somehow an important piece to all of this.
God must love all these folks a lot more than I was capable of. I thought Jonah was a jerk, but when I searched inside myself I found that if it were up to me alone I would have abandoned ship long ago. I was tempted to pray, “Please Lord, just let the pregnant lady of the hook now.”
If am stepping to the track please find me. If I am conducting the train, don’t forget me. If I am strapping her down, don’t cast me aside. If I am trying to hide my eyes, show me. If I am throwing stones, stay my arm with true love. If I’m tucked inside a womb scheduled to die, show up for me. If I am shouting that deadly lie, gently refute.
Across the driveway from my post, I began to recognize a few of the regular sidewalk advocates. They were welcoming and friendly. I was incredibly thankful when they were there. A couple of them had engaged with me, welcoming the prayer support as I welcomed their peaceful outreach to the patients.
Is it a shame? Is it really a shame that someone dares stand where someone dares look for a sign that would spare their unborn child from the lies of abortion. I should say not! We will not be ashamed.
Being the child of a pro-love activist, part of a family on a mission to pray together for an abortion doctor by name, Isaac had long been brainstorming possible solutions to abortion in his own heart and mind. He really wanted to find a way to convince the Doctor to stop choosing abortion.
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.
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.
The three dreams that make up The Axe. The Window. The Board. were different. Over the course of my fourth pregnancy, carrying my daughter Lily, I had all three. They shocked me to silence. I didn't know what to do with them. I felt they were significant but I also felt a weight of shame that I had even dreamed them. I knew they fit together, but I didn't see how. I couldn't forget them. I pondered these dreams and wrote them down. Years were spent pondering and praying, then, pondering and praying about these dreams some more. I couldn't let them go because as you read you will see that there is much more reality to them than fiction.
A Long 40 Days With a Sleepy Disciple 