No Matter How Small

My children do not yet know what abortion means.
I am dreading the day they find out.
They will be heartbroken.
Why would anyone kill their own baby?

I remember when I first found out. I was profoundly saddened and outraged. I remember that for a season, it was the hot topic to debate in speech class. And I also remember when people began to tire of hearing about it, on both sides of the fence.

They were hushed.

I've stayed pretty quiet on issues of today. Not wanting to alienate. Wanting to be understanding. Realizing I don't have everything figured out. Realizing I can't be so black and white.

But in raising my kids, I've also come to re-value when it's time to just speak plainly. To have the courage to say "It's wrong".

It's wrong to kill babies.

Who would have thought it would take courage to make a statement like that?

I think maybe in part because of who "it" was. Who it is. A huge monster that took on the appearance of our friends and sisters and ourselves that we didn't know how to fight.

Why would anyone kill their own baby?
The answers are numerous. Deemed complex.

How must children feel...to get these conflicting messages...children should be invested in...children deserve better...women should get to chose whether or not the humans within live or die....children should be protected....children might be a mistake....children may not be born with the correct genitals....children can't get tattoos or drink till their older....children are mature enough to have their own abortions....children can choose. children can't choose.

The answer my children, your children will hear, will nag at them. It did me.
Their sense of self worth and the worth of their children
Begins to hinge on the answer to the question,

Does your life matter if it inconveniences mine?

Despite the fear, the injustice, the inconvenience

I know I will say, as I have always said
'You child, are a gift. Every child is a gift.'

It is not a choice that should be given to extinguish
It is a murderous evil that has gone largely unchecked
It is vile and sad and horrifying

We are killing ourselves.

Of even more bewilderment to me are the doctors and nurses who kill the babies. They are not the ones who feel trapped or have been left to make this decision on their own. They come to work. They do not have an emotional connection to what is happening. They go home to their own children. Do they take maternity leave? What kind of insane compartmentalizing is happening here?

I remember sitting in "Horton Hears a Who" when Clover was just a few weeks old and found a lump growing in my throat during the rising chant, "A person's a person no matter how small." I wasn't expecting this children's narrative to take such a simple and obvious stand against a mother's right to choose. I don't even know if it was what Dr. Seuss originally had in mind. Yet I cried nonetheless. And then I had these heavy thoughts as I picked up my daughter's carrier and maneuvered through the theater aisle to the exit.

We teach our children not to kill. To be responsible. And then we teach them when it's ok to kill. And that bad people get punished for killing the innocent. But not always. Because sometimes, we are the bad people.

Let me be clear. I am not throwing stones. I was one of the young ones given a choice to swallow a life stopping pill just in case my future was threatened by inopportune timing. I wish I hadn't even had a choice. All I knew as a kid was fear of getting in trouble. Eventually, had I not taken that pill I would have seen on the other side- grace. But I didn't know.

We say "It gets better" to those struggling with gender and identity and sexuality. But why does it get better?

We say it's get better because growing older is half the battle. Usually the older you get you see how life offers the most unexpected twists and turns, and they aren't all bad and they most certainly are not all predictable. We say it gets better because we realize that part of feeling normal and surviving happens when we find our true friends and are accepted by either a nominated family or our biological family. We find community. That's part of the amazing component to making it that the LGBTQ have going for them, they offer an instantaneous, all accepting, far reaching community.

Can't we say to the young teenage mom, 'It gets better'? Can we be ready to offer instantaneous, all accepting community? Do we know how to be there if they chooses to give their child up for adoption? Can we sit in the emotional trenches of parenthood alongside them, can we celebrate the joys with them?

Can we offer legitimate hope to the mother and family swamped by financial stressors, who cannot even begin to imagine how they would go about caring for one more mouth to feed? Can we help continue to guide and encourage them as they struggle to figure it out?

Can we speak with confidence about our God who provides? Who wroughts abundant life from sacrifice? Who redeems time and dreams? Who gently leads the mothers of the young? Who has plans for and loves and knows well both mother and baby and wants to give good gifts to them both?

Can we offer grace? Can we offer hope?

I want to be part of the solution. I do not want to sit idly by. I do not want my kids to find out about this practice of abortion and look at me and wonder if my inaction meant it was not that big of a deal.

We have had teenage and unwanted pregnancies in my family. Quite a few actually. We've had a few such pregnancies in our church community too. I wonder as I sit here reflecting if we have done enough? Baby showers and hand me downs are helpful, but are we really helping beyond the superficial?

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The article below by Ann Voskamp outlines a great way to be part of a proactive effort to support all human beings, whether in-utero or out.

http://www.aholyexperience.com/2015/08/an-honest-conversation-about-abortion-that-asks-us-not-to-turn-away-from-anyone-the-emmaus-option/

My Heart

for my little pink Clover

She is seven
Little freckled nose, eyes that laugh
Behind the seriousness with which she surveys the world
Jack-o-latern grin,
Loud laugh and flinging arms and elbows
Into twirls and leaps
And one little heart pierced ear

She has patiently waited.
She's grown three times as old
With each addition to the family
She moved over, out of my arms
She moved over, out of my bed
Away from my feet
Out of my gaze
To make room

Tonight I gathered her into my arms
Dusted off my lap
Folded herself up to fit
She lay her head on me

I tucked a piece of wild, sweet curls
Behind an ear I hadn't seen in a while
This one is unpierced
Filled in smooth after the earring fell out

Heart pierced breathing
There she is
My first baby
I trace her ear, I look in her grey-blue eyes
Baby mine

I choked out, I miss you
She cried too
How have I forgotten to hold her?
Though I rage at time for carrying her away
She carries my pride, my joy,
My heart

Glass

its a schoolday, we have things to do
but play a little longer
i wasn't planning on breaking that glass
but it wasn't my fault ...or at least all my fault
glass perched precariously on a base too small
the others balanced
not knowing behind closed doors the emergency pending
not knowing a cupboard that had been opened hundreds of times before
would be the one time to let the glass fall
the glass broke
i took the brunt
i stayed barefoot in the kitchen sweeping up the remains
yelling at the children to stay back
to go get their shoes on
but i remain barefoot, i can't leave the pile i've patiently swept
can't risk my kids walking in the kitchen
risk them stepping on an un-found piece
even though i've warned them to stay away
thankful for the light
artificial and real
helping me catch the glint of lighted up glass
glass can go anywhere
humorous, almost, to see bits of it stuck in our bananas on the counter
it doesn't belong there
in the moment, you use what you can to contain an accident
i grab a business card among the ruins on the counter
and begin tapping and scraping the crystals into a line
not what i thought i'd be doing
i was just trying to put dishes away
i step on a small piece but it can't penetrate, my skin is tougher there, calloused
but minuscule splinters fell beneath my shirt
too close to places unshielded, most tender
pinpricks hurting and scratching with each movement though try as i might to shake myself free
my daughter wants to dance in the kitchen
in barefeet and ribbons she twirls in because to her blind eye the threat is gone, the accident contained
but i know better
it will take time before one can run freely through this room of the house again
when glass breaks, the scene changes
even after each piece is gone, ground down to fine powder
it will never really disappear
clinging to bristles on our broom
nestled in our grout and tile cracks
we will wear it on our feet, on my knees
as i kneel to sweep up what i can
as i cook and clean in the years to come
as my daughter dances in the kitchen
glass remains