One Chose Life
Saturday, November 22, 2008 at 10:44PM 
At 5:30 this morning I did something almost unheard of for me at such an hour ... on a Saturday or any other day. I got up, took a shower, dressed (warmly), put on makeup, and styled my hair. Just as if I were going somewhere important.
Because I was.
To be specific, I was going to at least one dozen funerals.
Sort of.
At 6:30, just as the slowly rising sun began staining the ultra-clear sky an amazingly delicate translucent blue, and the unleafed black tracery of millions of branches on hundreds of thousands of trees reached up to touch it in the crisp 20-degree air, TG, I, and our 22-year-old daughter Erica made for downtown Columbia.
Our destination? The only remaining abortion clinic operating in the Midlands of South Carolina.
A few arrived unaccompanied by anyone except the baby they had come there to eliminate.
(There used to be five. Four were private and all have closed their doors, the most notable one in 1995 when its owner and resident abortionist, a man once investigated for grinding the body parts of human babies in a common sink disposal, perished in an automobile accident that was his own fault. The building he owned and used for the purpose of murdering at least 30,000 children in an abattoir so egregiously unsanitary that his own employees ultimately alerted the media to the gross filth, now houses the offices of South Carolina Citizens For Life.)
The only such facility that remains in business (and business is brisk) is federally funded (read: taxpayer financed) pro-death juggernaut Planned Parenthood.
When we arrived, Steve and Ed and Anne, plus several other faithful activists whose names I do not know, were already in place on the curb in front of the plain brick building. Large signs, many of them horribly graphic (as they should be), had been strategically placed about so that those entering the Planned Parenthood parking lot could not keep from seeing them unless they either closed their eyes or became very interested in the distant horizon.
Above the entrance to the abortion mill was a huge, appropriately blood-red, canvas sign bearing these words, very large, in white: Blue Cross Blue Shield and Cigna Insurance Plans Now Accepted.
Yes! It's all about the money, honey. No! You say to me, it's all about choice!
Keep telling yourself that, darlin'.
Erica picked a spot for its good visibility and held a sign stating that helpful literature was available for the asking. I proffered pamphlets toward the closed windows of cars turning in at the drive. A sweet lady sat over to the side, obviously praying. Several men, including TG, took turns announcing to those entering the facility that there are many alternatives to abortion, and that we stood ready to help anyone in a crisis pregnancy.
We were ignored. Our fingers, toes, and noses began to freeze. Car after car turned in.
Girls brought to the facility by what appeared to be boyfriends, friends, sisters, fathers, mothers, and perhaps even husbands, were dropped off and sent inside alone where they would purchase, arrange, and endure the deaths of their children.
A few arrived unaccompanied by anyone except the baby they had come there to eliminate. Some were clearly distraught and tearful as they found parking spaces and struggled out into the cold morning air.
As a corollary of today's activity in the plain brick building there will be no lovingly selected tiny white caskets, no burial outfits, no flower sprays, no funeral programs, no cemetery plots, no headstones, no reliquary urns. There will be no need for obituaries, visitations, guest books, sympathy cards, mourners, casseroles, services, elegies, prayers, dirges, pallbearers, hearses, or graveside readings of the 23rd Psalm.
There will be noplace to go where these human beings can be remembered for what their lives might have been if things had been different ... in their parents, in their homes, in their families, in their country.
Imagine with me:
Life will not spool out before them, rich with endless avenues of possibility. They'll never wake, eyes shining, skin radiant as fresh milk, someone's arms outstretched, a loving voice saying that they are brilliant, they are cherished, they are about to have a delicious breakfast, there are plans for a shared day.
Nothing about a sunset or a ballad will ever break their hearts. There will be no tooth fairy, no Easter dress, no Christmas presents, no new puppy, no first bicycle, no swingset, no ice cream, no skates, no basketball, no birthday cake, no straight-A report cards. No purposeful endeavor, no recreation, and no achievement whatsoever.
No need for all that. They're done before they started, mercy scarce on their behalf as steeples in the Sahara.
My tissue was wadded and a bit damp but it was all I had so I used it to dry her tears.
They'll never step into a morning dense with buttery sunlight, bookbag swinging, things to be learned, accomplishment to be experienced. Never know the butterflies of the first day of school, or the joy of the last. Never hear Pomp and Circumstance chiming in the distance and thrill to the realization that it's for them.
Never taste a strawberry or a mustardy hot dog, or hunks of cold watermelon right after a swim, sand in their bathing suit and sun on their face. Never hear the crack of the bat or the roar of the crowd.
Never witness the winking of fireflies in twilight after a good supper and a summer day's worth of play. Never gasp at firecrackers on the fourth. Never hear the whir of cicadas on a hot September breeze, or see a goodness-laden late November family-filled table, or have any goodness or family to be thankful for. Never hear a Christmas carol suspended in icy December air. Never smell the first woodsmoke of autumn or the first blossom of spring. Never see a snowflake drift from heaven and, with millions of its fellows, whiten dreary earth.
Never love another human being. Never rent a tux or wear bridal satin. Never soak in a hot bath or snuggle between clean sheets or gaze at the interior of a rose. Never embrace their own children, or teach them to ride a bike and read a book and sing and swim and skip and worship and work.
Yes, I thought those things as tears of frustration stung my eyes much as the bitter cold stung my toes. I didn't take time to write them down then, because I knew I'd remember what I wanted to tell you now.
And then I saw her. She walked slowly towards us across the parking lot, small and alone. She was wearing a windsuit but the jacket was open to reveal a thermal top beneath which a strip of nascent baby bump was naked to the cold. Her plentiful auburn hair was restrained in a faux tortoise-shell clip. She had a long reptilian tattoo on the back of her neck, and a smoker's cough. Her eyes were green-gray and full of pain.
Nine weeks pregnant and desperate, she told us that she was there because the pregnancy is preventing her from working and she is about to be evicted from her house for nonpayment of rent. Her abusive husband has deserted her and her two young sons. She is officially out of options.
But something made her walk across the parking lot to talk with us.
She knew what we would say, and we said it. We talked for a long time. No more cars were turning in; the morning's business was well underway inside the plain brick building.
In the end we talked her off the proverbial ledge, and we prayed and cried with her, and we pooled our resources and put some cash into her hands. Steve and Anne promised to pick her up on Monday and take her to meet Anne's pastor, who they are sure will extend financial benevolence that we hope will get her through the worst.
She agreed to tie a knot and hang on at least that long. My tissue was wadded and a bit damp but it was all I had so I used it to dry her tears. Then TG, Erica, and I took her to IHOP where we relaxed over a hot breakfast. We talked for a long time. When we went our separate ways, she was (however temporarily) smiling through her tears.
Please, if you think of it, pray for her and for the unborn child. Her due date is June 11, 2009. That's a long road, but I think they know the way.
Reader Comments (10)
Oh Jennifer - you have brought me to tears this morning. This posting brings the fight for life right in front of us. I'm proud of you for going, I'm proud of you for being there and for talking to this woman and drying her tears. I will certainly be praying for her and her baby.
Thank you, Mari. I know they are going to need it. And it was nothing I did ... the Spirit of God was at work and I just happened to be there!
Jennifer, have you ever seen the movie "Bella" ? I think you would love it. Plus the actor in it went to an abortion clinic for "research" and ended up talking a couple in to having their baby, which they did and named after him! If you see it, let me know what you think. It's an independent film by someone who believes strongly in life, and it is so well done. I am really amazed that abortion is referred to as the right to choose, when so many women (and girls!) feel they really have no choice at all. I looked up something about it on the computer at college and the girls on either side of me, whom I did not know, saw what I was looking at and told me that they'd been coerced in to abortions at 17, one by her mother and the other by her boyfriend, or told they'd be abandoned. Both of them had lives deeply affected negatively, and were still sad and even bitter more than a decade later. It is not something that is good for the women at all.
Tracie, that is such a good point you make. These women and girls really do not feel they have any choices, and yet they do. Sadly, if they end the life of their baby, it is the opposite of an "answer" to their problem ... it merely ushers them into a life of guilt and grief that only God can heal, but only if they let Him. I've never seen that movie but I'll definitely look it up! Sounds like something my daughters and I would enjoy watching together.
Wow, I don't even know what to say. That is a great story and I love the way you told it, sad though it was. But I am thankful for the happy ending. Happy that you were able to save a life.
Thanks Audge. I'm happy too, but it was a sad day nonetheless. I can't stop thinking about the little ones whose mothers went through with it, and those who willingly took their lives, for money. I will meet God someday with no righteousness of my own, but I thank Him that I will not meet Him on judgment day with the blood of innocent unborn children on my hands.
This is the best blog post I have read in quite some time. It's beautiful. Thank you for writing it, and I'll definitely keep the girl and her young one in my prayers.
No, thank you, Kevin. As always you are too generous with your praise, but your valuable prayers for her are certainly coveted! And I wish you a joyous Thanksgiving!
Your story touches on a couple sound points: that you can protest without violence, insult and confrontation; and that you can reach someone who isn't sure of the road to take. Who knows about the life you saved this day, and what this unborn person may bring to the world in the future.
I will admit to being a bit of a fence-sitter on the issue of abortion (I've never put a woman in the position to have to decide on having one or not, and wouldn't leave her to decide for herself if I had); I support both life and choice, but oppose taxpayer funding for those who use abortion simply as a substitute for self-accountability/responsibility.
But I must say I respect those who take the fight forward with respect. You and your cohorts on this occasion have much to be proud of. I hope the young lady finds the way to make it count for her current and to-be young ones.
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