Hal Lennox rose early Saturday morning. This was going to be an important day, and he wanted to get a head start on being ready for it. He showered and shaved, kissed his wife goodbye, and headed out the door.
The plan was that he would meet Gene Chemosh for breakfast so Chemosh could brief him on what to expect. At 6:45 he entered the truck stop restaurant on the south side of the interstate. He felt exhilarated after the early-morning drive. The air outside was cool, though humid, and he had been awake long enough to work up a healthy appetite. He glanced around until the well-dressed man in the second booth on the far wall caught his attention by holding his coffee cup aloft.
Lennox hurried over, a big grin on his face. “Good to meet you, Gene. Gorgeous morning, isn’t it?”
Chemosh answered in a friendly but course manner, and by the time Lennox had seated himself and picked up a menu, he had found his companion very different from what he had anticipated. He was almost embarrassingly open and blunt, and his speech was liberally punctuated with street language. But Lennox soon adjusted to the coarseness of his new acquaintance.
Over breakfast, the two talked in lowered tones about the scheduled events of the morning. Hal Lennox was perhaps ten years the senior of Gene Chemosh, but he obviously held the younger man’s experience in high regard.
As they finished eating, Chemosh asked, “So what’s happened with the male? Is he in agreement now?”
Hal was caught off guard by Chemosh’s use of “male” instead of “father,” but he quickly recovered; this was, after all, a strictly medical conversation. “I think so. Patient said she had it under control and that there would be no problem.”
“Good. She sounds like she could take care of just about anything. Frankly, I’m curious to meet the ______ mother. She’s not your run-of-the-mill abortion candidate.”
“No.” Hal Lennox half grimaced, half smiled. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” He lowered his head and raised one eyebrow, looking at the younger man. “Not many women would entertain this. But that’s why she considers herself a ‘trail blazer,’ I guess.”
“Spare me from trail blazers!” Chemosh laughed. “I guess it’s all in how you _________ look at it.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t make any _________ difference to me what the ________ woman’s thinking. I’ll just do my job.” The two men ate quickly, and then Chemosh indulged in a long yawn and took his credit card out of his wallet. “Ready to go?”
“I’m ready,” Hal Lennox replied. “Shall I follow you?”
“No; why don’t you ride with me? I can fill you in on a little more detail on the way.”
“Good.” There was appreciation in the older man’s voice. He wanted to glean all he could from being with this fellow abortionist. Gene Chemosh was well known in his professional circles as a leader not daunted by social mores or puritanical attitudes foisted upon him by the public. He had won the high regard of several key legislators who were almost fawning in their support of him. Lennox wanted to get inside his head, so to speak, in order to gain the confidence he now lacked in promoting his own abortion business throughout the Rock Pier community.
Lennox had never performed an abortion on a full-term fetus. The procedure today required a seasoned late-term abortionist as well as someone with plenty of know-how in processing fetal organs and tissue. He himself didn’t qualify in either regard, but he intended to learn a lot today—and not just about the procedure. Lennox was curious as well about the personal philosophy that seemed paramount to the continuing success of an abortionist who was also an organ/tissue distributor.
“Do you expect protesters today?” Lennox asked the question mostly to learn Chemosh’s attitude toward the infamous people who had somehow managed to prevail in making it difficult for abortionists to achieve full-fledged status in medical society. They personally did not affect Lennox, because they had yet to discover that he performed abortions. But he had heard a lot about these protesters, and they intrigued him. What drove them to spend hours outside a clinic shivering in the cold or baking in the sun, just to hold up pictures of dismembered fetuses? They weren’t doing themselves any favors: if anything, they were shunned by society more than abortionists. What brought them to stand out there in pathetic little groups when they didn’t seem to have much else in common than a strange zeal to protest abortion? Many had been to jail more than once. He wondered if Chemosh was curious like he was.
“Picketers? Oh, yeah!” Chemosh’s disdain rang with an underlying conceit. “I get picketed just about every _______ day of the year. I’m used to them, though—stupid people living in the dark ages. He paused and a smirkish chuckle escaped. “If they knew what we were doing today, there’d be a swarm of them. But only the regular Saturday freaks will be there.” Stalled in traffic in a work zone, he turned to explain, “Our busy days are Friday and Saturday, and that’s when most of them come out.” He paused and looked over at the man next to him. “Don’t you have the ______ fanatics at your office?”
“Just a few.” Lennox didn’t feel like disclosing the fact that he was unknown to abortion protesters. “But you’re targeted by people from a wide area because you do late term, aren’t you?”
“Sure. They come from all over, but it doesn’t bother me. As long as we have the law on our side, we’re fine. The general public needs us. Becoming pregnant is seldom the upside of making love for my clients,” he explained with a sarcastic smile, “and that’s why I have such a lucrative job. I figure I’ve helped a good many people out of unpleasant scrapes—men and women both. I’m glad it’s _______ gruesome. If it weren’t, every Tom, Dick and Harry M.D. would be doing it, and the price would be forced down.” He reached for a small flask of brandy buried in the console and took a sizeable swig. “This helps,” he said, grinning. “I’m not an alcoholic, but I can use a little kick just before having to look at those stupid Christians waving their signs and hollering that I’m headed for hell if I don’t repent.”
He turned the corner, now just two blocks from the building. As he did so, he let out a stream of expletives and turned to his companion with surprise and suspicion that quickly burgeoned into anger. “I thought this was totally under wrap. Who let the _________ picketers know?” Chemosh obviously didn’t like surprises. He put his foot on the brake and glanced demandingly at the man beside him.
Lennox, on his part, was still staring at the crowd of people flooding the sidewalk and bulging out onto the curb between the cars. It looked like a hundred or more. They were shouting in unison, “Don’t kill the baby! Don’t kill the baby. Don’t kill the baby!” as the car approached. Over and over the words rang in the early morning air.
“Is it safe to drive through them?” Hal Lennox had never witnessed any protesters, much less so many in one place. It was like a mob, and his own surprise exposed his cowardice.
“We’re safe; don’t worry.” There was anger in Chemosh’s voice. “We’ve got a ton of steel on our side. It might not be safe for them, though.” He cursed and gunned the engine.
Lennox yelled, “Don’t be stupid.” Perhaps he said it in the nick of time. Or perhaps Chemosh had his anger under control and was only trying to scare the picketers—and himself. At any rate, he braked just before turning into the driveway, and the crowd of people separated and cleared it just in time. A woman screamed as she rushed to get out of the way of the gray sedan. A child about ten had been knocked to the ground by a man endeavoring to keep him from being hit.
It was a close call, and Lennox knew Chemosh himself felt lucky that no one had been hurt, for he turned to the older man with relief and apology in his voice. “I’m sorry. I lost it for a moment.”
Lennox was still in shock. “Yeah,” he replied. “I’d say we’re lucky. We could have been facing manslaughter charges.” The words had hardly left his mouth when he thought of the irony that he and his companion would soon be cutting up a fully developed fetus. Thankfully, there was no time to think about it now. He sighed. “Well, anyway, we’re here. Now what?”
“Let’s go inside. Your client should be here already. We’ll scrub and get going.”
They opened their car doors and were besieged by a metered shout from the crowd that was even louder and more vehement. The throng of people seemed heightened in their commitment because of Chemosh’s reckless driving.
“Don’t kill the baby! Don’t kill the baby! Don’t kill the baby!”
Hal Lennox suddenly had a strong desire to run and hide. But circumstances dictated that he walk calmly and casually beside Chemosh into the building.
……….
While Chemosh and Lennox entered the clinic building, Mike Chadwell, two blocks away, was looking for a parking place. Nancy was concentrating on helping him find a parking spot on the crowded street. Carla sat in the back seat, her eyes closed. She was fervently praying that God would intervene, and that the baby scheduled to be killed today by abortionist Gene Chemosh would somehow escape death. It was difficult to conjure up the faith to believe it would happen, but that’s why she and Mike and Nancy, as well as the rest of the crowd of protesters were there, after all.
The car’s engine stopped, and Carla opened her eyes. What a beautiful day it was. The air was filled with summer noises: a lawn mower down the street, myriads of birds chirping all around—a piercing siren in the distance. Carla stood for a moment, appreciating the precious gift of hearing, as if to brace herself for the morning event in front of her. The sight before her reminded her of the incredible distance between God who bestowed life and mankind who took it from his neighbor. All of a sudden she heard the cries of the protesters in the distance, and came back to the reality of why she was standing outside in the first place.
“This baby will never get to take in these sounds,” she thought to herself. “He’ll never get to see a robin’s egg, or learn to ride a bike. He’ll never know the excitement of a football game, and he’ll never hear music of any kind.” She stood thinking beside the car another moment. “How can one person’s life be destroyed by another person’s whim? Or, worse yet, by a well-thought-out decision? What cruel inequality! It’s ‘might makes right’ gone to seed.” Her mouth pursed at the irony in the unintended word play.
Carla’s thoughts had to be put aside right now, but she was more determined than ever to share those thoughts at the slightest opportunity. She felt compelled to do so, despite the fact that her personality was more retiring than bold.
As Michael, Nancy, and Carla pulled out their signs from the trunk, and walked towards the clinic, Nancy wondered out loud, “Do you suppose the mother’s already in there?”
“Probably,” Mike’s tone was matter of fact. “We’ll ask; someone’ll know.”
“Hey, John!” he said, as he approached and recognized one of the picketers. “What’s happened?”
“Oh, Chemosh just got here with another man. I think the crowd caught them both off guard. The man he was with looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole, but Chemosh was his usual arrogant self. When he drove in, he revved his motor and almost hit Faye Trosco and a little kid about nine or ten.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not! But what do you expect from someone who’s used to killing people every day?”
“Is the girl in there, too?
“We don’t know. Graham’s been here since six o’clock, but there were a couple of cars here already, so we’re not absolutely certain.”
Michael and Nancy had found their way to the driveway entrance, pushing through the pulsating crowd. They arrived just in time to see a taxi approach the entrance and turn in. Somebody yelled, “It’s her!” The crowd immediately started chanting, “Don’t kill the baby!” over and over. Carla was lagging behind, but she joined in at the top of her voice, and the chant continued for at least a full minute. Meanwhile, the taxi drove right up to the front door. The noticeably pregnant girl disembarked with difficulty, and the abortion escorts quickly whisked her inside.
As soon as the door closed and locked behind her, the shout of the crowd became one word: “No! No! No! No! No!” For another full minute the deafening protest continued in perfect unison, and then one man’s voice rose above the din of the crowd. It was John, the man Mike had questioned earlier.
“Thus says the Lord, ‘Yea, they sacrificed their sons and their daughters unto devils, and shed innocent blood, even the blood of their sons and daughters, whom they sacrificed unto the idols of Canaan: and the land was polluted with blood.’”His voice had a deep, resonant quality, and every word was audible, even to the people farthest from him.
Carla was caught up in the fervor of the moment, wishing her mother were here to hear the man quote the scripture she recognized as the one that had cemented her mother’s commitment to the pro-life cause. She scanned the crowd to look for her brother to tell him about the scripture. There he was, with Nancy, coming toward her from less than fifty feet away.
When they reached Carla, Nancy grabbed her friend by the hand and pulled her towards the street and away from the crowd, all the while motioning to Mike to hurry with her. Carla wanted to stay where she was and would have offered resistance, except that Nancy’s face was ashen and there was such a distraught look in her eyes. Carla allowed herself to be dragged out of the crowd, but as they got to the thin edge of it, she stopped stubbornly.
“Nancy,” she said, with pointed sincerity, “I’m not going another inch until you tell me what’s the matter. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“I only wish I had!” Nancy was out of breath. “Carla,” she panted, “the girl who went in there—the mother—is Patrice!”
“Patrice?”
“Yes! As in Marc Garman.” She looked at Carla’s blank face. “Your boss, Carla!”
“No, it can’t be. No way. Patrice isn’t even pregnant.” Carla gasped, remembering the time she had run into Marc and Patrice downtown and how she had thought at the time that Patrice’s stomach certainly wasn’t flat as she expected it to be. “Oh, you can’t be serious. No, no, no!” Her voice had become almost hysterical in tone, but she stifled the volume. “How could they? I can’t believe it!”
“I don’t think it’s ‘they,’ Mike observed, “if Garman didn’t come with her.” He looked at Nancy to affirm his supposition.
“No, I don’t think so, either.” Nancy shook her head. “She came alone in the taxi.”
“I wonder if he even knows.” Mike searched in vain for a tissue from his pocket to give to his sister, whose eyes had filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Carla apologized. “I’m just upset—upset and angry. I’ll bet this isn’t what Marc wants. But if it is, I don’t want to work for him anymore. How could Patrice do this?” She took a deep breath, as if stifling the flurry of feelings inside her being. Her cheeks puffed out as she slowly exhaled and wiped away the angry tears. “She’s so pretty, but how could she do this? And why?”
“She won’t feel very pretty tonight,” Nancy predicted. “I bet she’ll have to drink herself to sleep.”
Carla looked up at Nancy. “What?”
“How could you sleep knowing your full-term baby died that day because you arranged for him to die? You couldn’t help but think of what it would be like to cradle him, but instead the baby’s in pieces by your own choice!” Nancy shook her head slowly. “No, if she doesn’t become an addict of some type, I’ll be really surprised.”
“I don’t think she drinks, Nancy,” Carla countered.
“I’m sure she’s never done what she’s about to do, either. She has a lot of denial ahead of her.”
“What about Marc?” Mike asked.
Nancy looked at him, waiting for him to answer his own question. When no answer came, Carla spoke up.
“I don’t want to go to work Monday,” she reasoned out loud. “His only consolation is probably that no one knows. And my face will be a dead giveaway.”
“Mine, too, but I don’t have to work right under his nose.” Nancy turned her head to look at the crowd of protesters. “We should pray for conviction to overtake the people inside this building: Two abortionists, someone they’ve hired to cut up the baby to sell his organs, and a woman who’d rather have her baby dismembered than to be nestled in her arms. Unbelievable!”
“Come on.” Mike grabbed both girls’ arms and guided them in an authoritative way over to the cement wall that surrounded the building. “God’s a miracle-working God. Let’s pray.”
When they reached the four-foot wall, Mike started praying. “Father, God of all creation, You know all things that have led to this tragic event.” A deep sigh escaped his lips as he went on. “Lord, I pray that You would take the blinders off the eyes of the people inside this death camp. They are each one desperate and most of them don’t even know it. But maybe some do—maybe just one, maybe two. Lord, help them to cry out to you soon. Send Your Holy Spirit of truth. Open their eyes.
“Lord,” he continued, “we pray for Patrice. She doesn’t have a clue that she’s staking her tent in the enemy’s camp. She’s buddying up to her soul’s destroyer. Lord, in Your mercy, let her see the enemy for who he is, and let her see You. Oh, God, give her grace to run to You. And, God, we stand in the gap for that little child who is facing a violent death because his mother lives apart from You. Lord, if he dies, don’t let his death be in vain. Please use it to draw someone inside this building to You.
“Father, we pray for Marc Garman. If he didn’t want his child killed, please comfort him somehow. I know I’m asking for a miracle. Don’t let him succumb to bitterness or hatred. The hole in his life left by his child’s death You alone can fill. Somehow do it, Lord. We know it’s only by Your Spirit, God, that the pain can be soothed. We pray for him, asking You to do just that. Lord, draw him to you. Draw Patrice to You. Forgive them both and draw them to You, O Lord God. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.”
……….
Monday morning dawned hot and muggy. The air conditioning had gone out in Carla’s apartment building on Sunday, and the shower she’d taken only a few moments earlier had already lost its cooling effect. It didn’t help that foreboding thoughts still dominated her mind. Her unsettled thoughts felt like a chain she had to remove in order to proceed ahead in the day. Consciously interrupting her normal morning routine, she stopped to ask God what she should concentrate on to replace the troublesome worries beleaguering her mind.
“Lord, I’ve already asked you to take care of it, but I’m so used to trying to take care of things on my own. What shall I think about?”
Why don’t you pray for Marc and Patrice? Why don’t you ask Me to bless them? The questions surprised her, and Carla whispered aloud, “Bless them? But, God…Patrice?”
Patrice. Yes. Patrice.
It was then that Carla recognized the anger pent up inside her towards this woman who, in Carla’s eyes, had never seemed to fully appreciate the love Marc Garman had for her, and who had now perpetrated their baby’s death.
“But God, it’s just not fair. That child was theirs to love, not kill.” She stopped and looked up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes. “Please, God, how do I pray? I don’t think I can.”
Hold on! That inner voice was authoritative, and Carla obeyed the command. I didn’t tell you to voice your opinion. I told you to pray. Do it before you enter the office.
Carla had learned the worth of obedience to the instruction she felt in her spirit. But as she got into her car and drove to the office, she found it hard to give up the resentment she felt. Finally, she stopped trying and prayed. “God, please help me. I don’t like Patrice one bit.” She thought for a fleeting moment about the verse from Romans 5 that she had committed to memory just a couple weeks prior. “I need Your love shed abroad in my heart.” Trusting God to give her the love just like the Word said, she prayed. “Please bless her today just the way You want to—just as much as I’d want You to bless me.”
At that precise moment, the thought occurred to Carla that Patrice might very well be in a lot of pain right now—in her spirit as much as in her body. Patrice had gone through the trauma of childbirth, but there was no sweet little baby—awake or asleep—to assuage the physical discomfort of recovery. Instead, she had the memory of her child being deliberately killed, as well as the image—inescapable, surely—of the baby’s being systematically cut up and then indirectly sold through a donation process, piece by piece—marketed out to strangers who had no appreciation for the person who was that precious, tiny human being. Her baby had become a what instead of a who, and the blame would ultimately find its way home to her.
Worse yet, Carla realized with empathy suddenly sincere, Patrice probably couldn’t escape the remorse that would accompany thinking about the pain the baby had to have endured before he died.
“Oh, God, You answer too fast.” Locking her car, Carla blinked back tears of compassion that threatened to preempt the composure she so needed this morning. “Thank you for Your love that fills my heart.” She wiped her eyes with a gesture of exasperation. “But now what? I can’t start the day like this.” In spite of herself, Carla couldn’t help feeling a little annoyed. “I think I was doing better before.”
Were you?”
She knew it was a reference to her bitterness. “No, God. I’m sorry. Just help me—please.”
My pleasure.
Carla smiled. It was just a little upward twist on the right side of her mouth, but it was triggered by a feeling of such well-being that Carla was taken aback. “I can’t believe I lived twenty-three years before I got to know You. I had no clue what I was missing. But I’m on board now.” She took a deep, energizing breath and opened the office door.
“Here we go,” she said to herself and to her powerful Friend. And the feeling she now entertained, far from being foreboding, bordered on triumph.