to you, who chose abortion

Camp Tadmor, Oregon I have been thinking about you so much these last few months. Your story that I do not know bounces around in my heart and I wonder what you are doing today, right now, in this moment. I don't know much about your story, nothing at all, except one seemingly-minor decision that was made: abortion. Whether it was earlier this week or 55 years ago, you remember it like it was happening in this moment. You recount that day, that decision, that moment, and you wonder where the freedom that was promised to you went.

Where is the freedom that you were promised? The release and relief, that feeling of rightness and wholeness?

For years I have prayed for you, hoping the best, hoping His grace would engulf you day after day, letting you rest.

We are in the throws of adopting and I think of you more than ever, wondering if your decision will forever change our life too. The reality of abortion has become so much more than a vague concept in the last few years, it has become an indisputable and unavoidable truth that has invaded my heart like the sun invades the darkness, steady and sure, untouchable but visible in all the ways. The last few weeks I have seen post upon post of outrage over the horrible reality of Planned Parenthood crumbling the bodies of babies and selling them for profit. I have shared a few of these posts myself, out of complete uncertainty of what to do, feeling helpless in the way this darkness is happening. If anything, spread the word, get light shined into this darkness, someone stop this madness, is all I can seem to think. But while posting those two video links, my heart stopped and I wondered if you would see it and feel a ping of condemnation, a sting of shame. I do my very best, wording and then rewording, trying to wordsmith the post so that it is clear that I am not pointing my finger at you, at the woman who chose abortion, but at Planned Parenthood and the evil that is being conducted. 

I imagine you battling again and again the shame and guilt and regret. I imagine you walking out of that building, with a piece of you extracted from your very self and exterminated forever, wondering if what you decided was the right decision, wondering if that really was a life. I imagine you remembering that day, year after year, craving invisibility, hiddenness. I imagine Mothers Day being painful, the weeks leading up to it littered in grief. I imagine you wondering if your baby is in heaven with Jesus, imagining if your baby will introduce you to Jesus one day. I believe he or she will; I believe that your baby will be whole, no longer torn apart and crushed from forceps and instruments and tweezers, and ready to shower you in grace and love, the same love and grace that stems from Jesus.

I read these words from you, about how you were 23 when you got pregnant, fearful of what your family would do once they found out about your situation. You were scared, so scared, that you immediately thought of abortion. Remove the tissue, remove the issue - certain that would bring wholeness and healing, certain that was the decision for you, that you could move on forever and not blink. Not carry this decision around with you like a tumor on your heart. You explained that you know God can forgive you, but that you are sure you will be bearing this sin forever on this earth. That you feel shame for what you have done, that you always, every single day, ask the Lord to forgive you and heal you deeply, because you cannot forgive yourself. Oh my dear, He has forgiven you. You explained that you cry alone, so often, wishing you could undo the past, undo the decision, remake that choice, choose life for your baby. You are 28 while you write these words, five years later, and not a day goes by that you do not think of that day. You say that you look forward to the day He blesses you with another angel, but fear your body may be ruined from that one decision that felt so small and insignificant all those years ago.

I am sorry if my unknowing words deepen the caverns of the wounds you carry with you. I do my best to think about my words, but I know that I have no idea what hurts and what doesn't. I know that I do not know your grief the way I know mine, which means that I hurt you without meaning to. I am sorry for the shame that you have had to carry around like rocks on your back, for years, alone. I am sorry that you have been shunned and thrown out, rejected to your core, cast down as worthless.

But today, today I pray that you let His love invade every broken piece of your heart, that Jesus's presence would capture and gently caress the pieces of grief that have taken over parts of your soul. I pray that you allow yourself time to heal, that the healing ladder takes time, more time than we like, and that this is just as much a loss as any; I pray that these words contribute to healing and not hurting. My friend, I wish I were with you praying and holding your hand, praying freedom and peace over you now, telling you the Truths that you are beloved and so forgiven. I hope for you a joy that is impenetrable, only possible through Him.

I am sorry for the lie that was told to you, that you would be whole, that this one decision will not affect or influence or alter you. It angers me, deep inside of my bones, the fabrication, the deception, the lies, the distortion of reality. It infuriates me for you.

I am sorry for ever deepening the wound that has widened your sou, where sorrow has moved in permanently.

You are deeply loved.