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 ...
My body had become a trap to us both, his shoulder pressed tightly against my pubic bone. The doctor tugged on Noah as much as she could. Then my mother to realized that this was not normal. Everyone knows that you are not supposed to pull on a baby at that point. Except, this was an emergency.
We had been been swept up in an overwhelming love story. My baby and I had stood in a place to testify to that truth and it had washed over us. My heart longed to hold in my hands the hope I had held in my heart, to lay eyes on the gift the Lord had knit together in love for our family. Yet, I knew the most painfully beautiful challenge was ahead for us both. Giving birth for me. Being born for him.
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.
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.
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.
A Long 40 Days With a Sleepy Disciple 