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.
From the point that my son was able to be terminated, I would stand in praying for God to give birth to something beautiful at 320 Fulton, starting with you, Dr. ------. I will be going away when I give birth to my son. It is with tears that I share with you the significance of his name. His name is Noah.
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.
The week before Christmas at the clinic was especially hard. I don’t know why I held this hope that there would be less abortion, but I did. Here this day, it was likely that twenty five babies had been ushered into the arms of The Christmas Baby.
Although I stood to fight for LIFE with the pro-life officer who valued all human lives equally, clinic workers and the unborn, I was battling fear when I thought of returning to my prayer post by the driveway the coming Tuesday. I hoped the clinic workers knew that I was there praying for God to bless them, not strike them dead.
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.