Silent Living Victims
My abortion did not occur at Planned Parenthood or a county clinic. It happened in the late 80’s at a well-established suburban hospital. An obstetrician who delivered living babies on the side performed the procedure. At least, that’s what he called it. The nurse was a neighbor on my street.
I had stepped foot into the hospital scared and uncertain. I left knowing the truth. I killed my baby.
I became a silent living victim of abortion, far less a victim than the unborn. But, a victim nonetheless.
A victim of the lies.
I was told it would be painless. Not true.
I was told it would be easy. Not true.
That it was only a mass of cells.
Years later, a first trimester ultrasound from a wanted pregnancy showed me a living, moving creature. The baby’s heart resembled a butterfly fluttering with life. Incredibly symbolic.
My guilt and grief overwhelmed me.
Although reasons for supporting abortion vary, many proponents believe they are truly helping women. But I wonder how many have actually witnessed an abortion. Do they suffer from the sounds and smells that never leave one’s memory? Do they cry at night mourning their choice to take a life or feel cowardly for having chosen to walk away from circumstances and responsibility?
In recent years, I have chosen to view myself as an abortion survivor. I’ve come through on the other side. I’ve survived the guilt, the shame, the depression, the attempted suicide, the counseling, and the closet. My turning point was surrendering my life to Jesus Christ and accepting his forgiveness for my sins. It took me far longer to forgive myself.
Not days or weeks. It took years.
But millions of women have not survived. They sit in silence, fear, and self-contempt. They can’t be a spokesperson against abortion because they cannot speak for themselves. They are the living numb among us.
These precious women need us. They are victims, too. Every news story reminds them. Every social media post stabs them. Hard. They hurt. They fear the response of loved ones learning the truth.
Although we do need to bring atrocities to the light, I’d like to suggest a gentler than vigilante approach. Living victims are caught in the crossfire. You don’t hear their cries, but they are everywhere. In your classrooms, hospitals, churches, department stores. Everywhere.
Angry, judgmental words spewed across social media further damage those who need healing.
What can you do and say instead to reach their hearts? How can you show your grace and love? Will you extend a hand that safely pulls them from the closet?
Maybe then wounds will mend. Maybe then a voice will rise.
Maybe then we will speak.