Together, Mike and Nancy had been protesting at Rock Pier Women’s Clinic since the first part of February. Their routine was that Mike would stop by to pick up Nancy early Saturday morning and then the two would drive there together. Sometimes they were tempted to forget the picketing and just go out for breakfast, but they felt compelled to go to the clinic and do what they could to save a child’s life.
Many Saturdays were uneventful, but ever so often a couple did drive out and occasionally even stopped to thank the protesters standing in the raw elements. There was encouragement, too, in knowing that during the five-day workweek the picketers often saw at least one and sometimes two or even three babies saved. Mike and Nancy had great respect for a few of the picketers who gave up the comfort of their homes several days a week for several hours each time.
Once a month, the Saturday group bulged with a relatively large Catholic contingent from several churches, and occasionally a protestant youth group would mildly swell the group of protesters. At first neither Mike nor Nancy did anything but hold large signs that denounced abortion. But gradually the kid-glove attitude, which they had when they first came, wore off. As they came in closer week by week to the actuality of abortion, they recognized the travesty of the “procedure” euphemism. Sometimes they wished they could withdraw from the clear view their opened eyes now beheld.
Just a few months earlier they had been carefree in passively ignoring the subject of abortion, never giving even a thought to the tiny people who were being systematically killed one by one—day after day, week after week, month after month.
It was Nancy, actually, who had persuaded Mike to begin protesting. Ironically, she herself had been hesitant at first. Her bubbly personality had always more or less caused her to be liked by everyone, and she didn’t enjoy confrontation.
But when she visited her parents one long weekend, her entire perspective changed. On that Saturday afternoon, Joan Herring had been pouring cake batter into a glass cake pan and didn’t answer at first when Nancy asked her what she thought about abortion.
“Mom, did you hear me?”
Without turning to look at her daughter, Mrs. Herring said, “Why do you ask?”
“A friend from church gave me a pamphlet about it, and it was kind of disturbing to me. I guess I just wanted to talk about it.”
Mrs. Herring meticulously scraped the bowl, set it on the counter and lifted her chin way up as if to stretch her neck, all the while facing the cupboard wall in front of her.
Nancy asked again, puzzled. “Mom?”
Her mother turned and smiled. “Let’s go sit down and talk.” She walked over to Nancy, gave her a quick, tight hug, and started leading her into the living room.
“What about the cake?” Nancy asked. “Shall we put it into the oven?” Her mother had suddenly forgotten it.
“Oh, yes. Would you put it in, honey? It’s ready. Set the timer for thirty-five minutes.”
Nancy did this and then walked, curious, into the living room and sat down on the couch. Her mother was sitting in the armchair, holding her face in her hands. Nancy sat quietly for a moment. Mrs. Herring uncovered her eyes slowly, rubbing her eyebrows, cheeks, and finally chin, before she spoke. She repeated Nancy’s question.
“What do I think about abortion? I think a lot about it. Whenever I hear a baby’s cry, I think about it. Every Christmas season, it’s on my mind. Whenever I see a little child running in the park, I think about it.” She sat back in her chair and massaged the wooden ends of the armrests. A far-away look came into her eyes, and Nancy didn’t feel she should interrupt the long silent moment that followed. There was a feeling of sadness in the room. Nancy didn’t welcome the sadness, nor was she all that comfortable with long silences usually. At that moment, however, she felt drawn to both the sadness and the silence in an attitude of respect.
After a while, Nancy got up from the couch and moved over to sit on the floor beside her mother’s chair. She removed her mother’s hand from the armrest and held onto it gently as she pulled it onto her own shoulder. But she didn’t say anything, and neither did her mother.
Finally, Mrs. Herring spoke. “You’re not an only child, Nancy. You have a brother or sister—I don’t know which—waiting for us in heaven.”
Nancy’s emotions were flooded, but she said nothing. The words her mother had just spoken served to isolate her mother and herself in a suspended moment during which Nancy felt as though her whole being were agape. But gradually that suspension eased into a peculiar peace for Nancy. She found herself wanting to stretch this moment in time, as a way of giving homage to the unknown son or daughter, her own brother or sister. She sat in numbed silence and, in spite of her trying to stop them, tears began streaming down her face; she turned her head discreetly. She didn’t think her mother had seen, but when she heard her mother’s catching sobs, she unconsciously squeezed the hand on her shoulder and held it tight. Her natural inclination was to comfort her mother, but Nancy felt a peculiar restraint, and willfully shut out thoughts that would put the focus back on herself or on her mother. Her eyes, through their blur of tears, looked up and out the window, and four words welled up in her heart: “Made in His image.” Then she prayed, aloud, but ever so softly, “Let the sadness stay for a while, Lord. Some sorrow You call ‘godly.’ I know this is godly sorrow.” She swallowed and blinked at the tears, giving herself to missing in the deepest sense the brother or sister she’d never played with nor argued with—the brother or sister she’d never smiled at, hugged, admired, or loved.
After a moment, her mother picked up where Nancy had left off. “God, You know I’m so sorry. I know You’ve forgiven me—Oh, Lord, forgive Nels, too. And please help Nancy to forgive me.” The catching sobs caused Nancy’s hand to tighten again on her mother’s. “Help me…help me,” she stammered now, her words so softly spoken they were hard to understand, “…help me to forgive myself.”
Nancy continued to hold her mother’s hand tightly; but she didn’t say anything, embracing the numbness of her own blurred stare while her mother gave in to the tears she’d been stifling.
Finally, after several minutes, her mother wiped her eyes, reached for a tissue and blew her nose, regaining her composure. “I knew it was wrong; and if there had been one person there to say don’t do it, I really don’t think I would ever have entered that building. But there was no one there, and so I walked in—with Nels—carrying a baby; and I walked out with him several hours later carrying a void in my life that nobody—nothing—has ever been able to fill. It’s not that I haven’t been happy. I am happy, and I’ve lived a very full life; but from that day to this, I’ve carried a memory that only brings sadness whenever it surfaces for whatever reason. I miss that child, more than I could ever begin to tell you.”
Joan Herring looked at Nancy, now facing her, and went on, a wan smile on her face. “I remember once looking out the window and seeing the neighbor’s puppy playing on the grass. I watched him, but I couldn’t fully enjoy it, because I was imagining myself kneeling at that same window, pointing out the puppy to a chubby toddler beside me. That was a long time ago, and I’ve had many, many experiences like that since then. Now the pictures in my mind are sometimes of a young man, sometimes a young woman, starting a family.” She sighed and wiped her eyes again. “But there are no children.” Her voice succumbed to her grieving again. “Nels and I wiped out an entire family—our own son’s or daughter’s.”
“Mom!” Nancy gently chided.
“I’m sorry, honey, but it’s true.” Her lips twisted into a sad smile. “Sometimes I feel bitter that God didn’t have someone protesting for my sake at that clinic so long ago. He’s omniscient; why didn’t He spare me the regret and the remorse? Why didn’t He spare my child?”
“But, Mom, He wasn’t the one…” Nancy gently objected.
“I know, I know. He wasn’t; I was—we were.” She looked down resignedly, taking Nancy’s hand in her own, and sighed a long sigh. “Well, you asked me what I thought about abortion. That’s what I think of it.” She took a deep, audible breath, her diaphragm vibrating with subsiding emotion. She swallowed. “What do you think of it?”
Nancy answered softly, pensively. “A lot, lately, and I’ve actually been considering going out to the women’s clinic in Rock Pier to protest. I wanted to see what you’d think about my doing that.”
Joan Herring looked at her daughter thoughtfully for a very long moment. “Go, honey. Go,” she finally answered. “Maybe you can save just one child and spare his parents from having to carry around for the rest of their lives a mourning that you have to hide—one you yourself signed up for.” She nodded her head now. “Go for it, honey. Maybe I’ll join you one day. I’ve often thought I’d like to go to an abortion place on the anniversary date of our baby’s death, but I haven’t yet.”
“When was it, Mom?”
“January 15. He—or she—would have been twenty-seven this year.”
“Why haven’t you gone?”
Joan Herring sighed. “Maybe because I still carry bitterness; I don’t know. I want to do it as a memorial to our child. Wouldn’t it be good if what our child and Nels and I went through could save someone else from the same fate?”
Nancy looked at her mother, her face full of empathy.
“Nancy, I have to ask you: Will you forgive me, sweetheart?”
“Of course, Mom.” Nancy vainly tried to blink back more tears as she stood up from the floor and bent over to embrace her mother.
“I love you so much, honey. Imagine how different my life would be without you—I can’t even go there.”
“Satan comes to kill, steal and destroy, Mom. But he doesn’t get the last word in the lives of God’s people—or in their deaths. I am going to start going to the clinic. I had originally thought I wanted to go because I felt like no one was defending those little innocent human beings. Now I’m going for the mothers and dads, too. But most of all, I will be going for my brother or sister. One day I’ll meet him—or her.” She hugged her mother again and whispered, “It will be a wonderful reunion, won’t it?”
Joan Herring smiled. “Yes, dear.” She tightened her hug as she whispered, “Thank you for this time. It’s been very…helpful to me.”
And so it was that Nancy Herring became a “picketer.” Rain or shine, she was determined to spend her early Saturday mornings at the abortion clinic. Usually she accompanied Michael; but if he was unable to go, she drove herself.
……….
May seemed particularly hot to Patrice Hamlin, but she didn’t spend much time thinking about the weather. Her pre-med classes were demanding, and it was hard keeping her head above water, what with her part-time job as a medical assistant in addition to her studies. Marc seemed to understand, knowing how much her career meant to her. They hadn’t resolved the pregnancy issue, although Patrice knew that Marc thought they had. She was now almost six months pregnant and showing despite her best efforts to disguise the fact.
Patrice was carefully watching her diet, but she was just as diligently keeping herself from bonding with the fetus she was carrying. She felt bad for Marc, who wanted this baby so much—although she didn’t know whether it was just for the child’s sake, or perhaps to strengthen the bond between the two of them as well.
One thing she knew for sure: she was not going to let herself be persuaded or manipulated into doing anything that would compromise the plans she’d carefully guarded for several years. She had seen a woman’s goals shipwrecked in her own mother’s life and how those failed goals had produced a failure of a woman. She had no plans to repeat her mother’s mistakes, Marc or no Marc. However, the issue of Marc was a big one. Patrice wasn’t sure she could snag another man like Marc, and she didn’t want to lose him. She planned to become a notable doctor—perhaps even a famous one. A handsome, motivated man like Marc at her side would certainly not be a detriment. Besides, she really did care for Marc—more than any other person alive.
Patrice was an economist at heart—a pragmatist. Out of all the medical fields she had considered, fetal tissue seemed to be most promising to her as an avenue of progressive social change. When she thought about all those aborted fetuses, and thought, too, about people with failing body parts, she couldn’t think of anything more symbiotic: fresh new tissue, being discarded, and failing old tissue which sent otherwise-functioning people early to their graves. Then there were the victims of trauma who could perhaps regain normal body function if there were only a sufficiency of donors.
Now, on her way to work, she patted her stomach, its growth impossible to hide now, and thought of how many people could be helped by her gift of this fetus inside her.
But what about Marc? She knew she would have to act on her own, surreptitiously, because he would never agree to an abortion at this point. A wry half-smile crossed her face. How glad she was that Marc had given his word not to mention her pregnancy to anyone. The secrecy was to play a key role in the success of Patrice’s endeavor to provide a significant piece in fetal tissue research. She felt movement of the fetus inside her and thought out loud, “I’m carrying new life for a lot of people.”
Patrice was surprised and pleased at her own ability to escape a motherly attachment to this growing organism inside her. She knew such an attachment could prove devastating to her plans. She thought of her mother, who had aborted two children, and she was thankful she had that as an example. To be sure, her mother didn’t have a humanitarian end in mind when she terminated her pregnancies. But now, in the not-too-distant future, women could abort their babies with more peace about it, knowing they were bringing life to other people. Patrice viewed herself as a pioneer to this cause, paving the way for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of other women.
She hadn’t mentioned her plan to donate her full-term fetus to research to anyone at all yet. Her gynecologist, who at first just assumed Patrice would abort the baby early on, now assumed she wanted to keep it. To that end, Dr. Marbrandt appeared glad about Patrice’s pregnancy. When Patrice thought of her, a heroic feeling of pride took over. Dr. Marbrandt had no idea that Patrice was going to play a key role in turning the tide so that all doctors could openly approve abortion of late-term babies. After all, more mature fetuses would undoubtedly be more useful for society, if people—including doctors—could get past social hang-ups.
Patrice could show the world just how giving a woman could be. In her own practice she hoped to open within the next ten years or so, she fully intended to hire a therapist trained to help women be more unselfish in their unwanted pregnancies. Patrice made a mental note that gestation counselors should be in hospitals and ob-gyn offices, and especially in the schools. Otherwise, stigmas that had become engrained in society would prevail, and women would find it too hard to give their late-term babies—fetuses, she corrected herself—for research.
“But what about Marc?” On this nagging question, Patrice drew a big blank. The issue was troublesome to Patrice, but she patted her distended stomach and dismissed her uneasiness by remembering how crazy he was about her and assuring herself that he’d come around. “I’ll just tell him to remember how much fun we’ll have getting me pregnant again.” She smiled at this idea and left the subject, feeling a bit more confident about it than she had in a long time.
……….
Most Thursday evenings now, Carla attended Rock Church, but on Sunday mornings, she continued to drive to her hometown to attend church with her mother and Susie still at home. For one thing, it freed Michael and Nancy from having to include her in their plans after church. Although she knew they didn’t mind having her with them, especially now, since she had an even tighter bond with them through mutual faith, she also knew they could function quite well without her.
Carla now understood more fully how Nancy had been so strongly attracted to Michael. Indeed, she had continued looking around at TNC herself, but nobody particularly captured her attention. Sig hadn’t made any further attempt to contact her, and this didn’t bother Carla in the least. Somewhere, she was convinced, God had set aside just the right man for her to love for a lifetime.
Approximately a month after Don Whitten spoke at Rock Church, Carla began joining Michael and Nancy on Saturday mornings in their protest at the abortion clinic. Carla’s motivation was almost a compulsion, stemming from her telling God that evening, “Here I am; send me.” Since that time, her life had changed significantly. For one, she had begun seriously reading the Bible. She wondered at how this book could suddenly “come alive” to her, and how all of a sudden it so aptly applied to her personal circumstances. She began to understand how Michael could treasure it as much as it seemed he had for the last several years. She also no longer wondered at how Nancy could be so sweet and still be sincere: it was because her heart was open to the influence of God in her life.
At times, Carla found her own conversion almost incredible. Although on the surface there seemed to be no change in the routine of everyday living and working in Rock Pier, her life had most definitely taken a unique turn.
……….
“Mom?” Midge called, bursting through the back door on a Saturday afternoon and looking and listening for her mother’s presence.
“Hi, Sweetheart! I’m in here.”
Midge turned toward the laundry room.
“I’m tired!” Midge yawned, walking up to her mother with her arms outstretched for a hug.
“I’ll bet you are. How was work?”
“Not bad.” She grinned at her mother. “Hey, it pays the bills—about a fourth of them, anyway.” There was a droll look on her face. Lou ignored the comment, focused instead on how tired her daughter appeared.
“Did you sit down today?”
“Yeah, most of the time. Jill Fletcher came in about 2:30, and we talked for a while. She’s nicer than I’ve given her credit for. She asked if I was keeping the baby.”
“And…”
“I told her I still didn’t know. What should I have said?” Midge demanded, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.
“I don’t know, honey. But it’s getting later and later for you to make a decision.”
“It’s not like I’ve forgotten about it!” Midge countered. “Believe me; it’s on my mind all the time.”
“Do you have any leaning one way or the other?”
Midge heaved a huge sigh, blowing out her breath in a combination of exasperation and bewilderment. “Well, I guess I feel this baby deserves a father, and I can’t give him that. But I also know I can give him a mother’s love, and I don’t have a guarantee that another woman will do that, even if she’s married and there’s a father already in place.”
Lou gave her daughter a sympathetic look, but she didn’t say anything.
“I don’t want my baby to feel rejected, Mom.”
“Of course you don’t, honey. Let’s sit down and have a cup of tea.” Lou put two mugs of water into the microwave. “You still have some time, Midge. But you know a decision as important as this one shouldn’t be made when you’re tired. How about if for one week you go to bed a half hour earlier and get up a half hour earlier, and every morning do some serious thinking about it. No one will interrupt you, and you’ll be rested rather than tired. If you set aside an entire week to think carefully about this, I’m confident you’ll come up with the right answer.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Midge’s mouth pursed in an approving expression as she nodded her head.
“You know your dad and I are here for you, sweetie. We’ll be praying you make the right decision, and we’ll assume it’s the right one, whatever you finally decide by the end of the week.”
“OK. But are you sure you guys wouldn’t mind having a screaming baby in the house?”
Lou chuckled. “No, honey. We won’t mind. Whatever you decide we are one hundred percent behind you.” She nodded encouragingly to her daughter. “You’ve matured a lot.”
Midge sighed. “Thanks, Mom. I’m trying.”
Lou tweaked her daughter’s cheek. “I’ve gotta get supper started.”
One by one, decisions were being made and problems ironed out, and Midge found herself thinking of the words Bonnie Chadwell had shared with her mother. She whispered them now as her mother walked over to the pantry. “All is well.” This time it was more fact than faith, it seemed, and that was good, she decided, patting her stomach tenderly.
Ten days later as she ate supper with her folks, Midge announced, “OK, I’ve made my decision.” She laid her fork carefully on her plate and looked first at her dad and then at her mother. “Thanks for not bugging me about it. I’ve thought about it from every angle, weighing every factor I can think of.”
Lou Ferguson looked at her daughter and then at John, waiting for him to react.
“And?” John prompted.
Midge sighed. “I’m going to make adoption plans through ‘Springs of Life.’” Tears glistened in her eyes, and she choked out the words. “I don’t want to, but I know it’s the right thing to do. This baby needs a dad. I want him to be part of an ideal family, with a stay-at-home mom at least until he’s school age.”
“Can you request that?” John asked.
“I think so, and Tanya Salvadore says I can request a Christian home, too.”
“That would be wonderful.” Lou reached over and took Midge’s hand in both hers. “We’re proud of you, honey.”
There was a look of concern on John’s face. “Will you be able to visit the baby?”
“Tanya said it seems to work well for the biological mother to visit about once every two or three months—or at least exchange pictures.”
“There’s a big difference between pictures and visiting, Midge.”
“I know, Dad. We’ll work out the details.”
“When does the baby learn that you’re the biological mother?” John asked.
“I guess as soon as the new parents are OK with it. Supposedly the child adjusts early to having two mothers—one who is with him all the time, and one who visits him regularly. That way he gets used to seeing me and doesn’t feel rejected. Plus, he grows up knowing the reason for his adoption early on, instead of wondering why…” Midge spoke with difficulty, stifling tears, and was unable to finish. The three sat in silence for a while until Midge’s face broke into a smile.
“I can feel the baby kicking,” she announced, putting her hand on her belly.
“Oh, may I feel?” Lou asked as she jumped up and bent over beside Midge, who placed her mother’s hand where she could feel the baby. Lou grinned, looking at her daughter. “This baby is strong!”
“Strong and sweet and very loveable,” Midge smiled, giving way to the tears that now streamed down her face. “Dad?” Midge looked at her father, and he seemed to know her unspoken question.
“Sweetheart, we told you we’d support you in whatever decision you made.” He began nodding his head slowly but decisively. “I think you’ve made the right choice. No matter how much we love your child, we can’t be the father he needs, and every child deserves a father. That’s God’s plan, after all. But even if our first grandchild lives apart from us, even far away from us, we’ll always love your little boy— even if we seldom get to see him—just because he’s yours. He smiled reassuringly. “Somehow I’m confident God will let us spend time with him down the road. We’re proud of you, Midge.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Midge’s voice was sincere. “You two are the best parents I could ever wish for.” She sighed, new tears surfacing, and stood up. “I’m blessed.”
“Well, we’re blessed, too, honey,” Lou replied. “Let me give you a hug before I clear the dishes.”
Midge obliged and then walked over to where her father still sat, leaning down to give him a pat on his shoulder and a peck on his cheek. “I love you, Dad.”
John Ferguson stood up and wrapped his arms in a tight hug around her. “That little guy is going to make some couple whoppin’ happy.”
“I know.” Midge picked up an armload of dishes from the dining room table and walked into the kitchen. “The chicken was great, Mom. It was so nice to eat in the dining room for a change.” She gently pulled her mother away from the sink. “Would it be okay for me finish up in here while you and Dad maybe go for a drive?” she asked, adding, ” I’d kind of like to be by myself.”.
“OK, honey. John?”
“Let’s go.”
A half hour later, Midge walked into her bedroom and reached under the bed for a shopping bag. She opened it, pulling out a soft blue receiving blanket. She held it up for a moment, then grabbed it to her chest and held it tightly there.
“I love you so much, little precious baby,” she whispered. Then she knelt down by her bed, still clutching the blanket. “God,” she prayed, “please take care of my baby. Give him parents like mine.” Her eyes welled with tears. “And please let me be a blessing to him. Please—all my life.” She waited as if expecting a reply. In another moment, she got up, and with a smile bravely sought to dispel the tears. She took a deep breath and said confidently, “I know all is well!”