Abortion....Now this is a fun topic.

I am not a woman. I have never had the experience of peeing on a strip of white plastic, and then knowing how the fate of the rest of my life within ten to fifteen minutes, (with 99% accuracy) would unfold. Thankfully, I have never slept with a girl and then find out a few weeks later that she was carrying around some substance in her stomach that was going to look and talk just like me. I have had those dreams at night, when I have done something incredibly stupid, such as not going to a class for an entire semester and then realizing the final exam is being handed out. Or arriving to school in just a tee and nothing else, always trying to conceal the shameful oversight of not wearing any pants to school that day. But never has that “I’m totally screwed” sensation ever crossed into the reality of my life in such a way that some girl would be impregnated by my colossal irresponsibility.
I do know of women who have fallen into this abrupt reminder of nature and her motherhood, and I know women who have bee afraid, and I also have know women who saw no other place to go, not to a home, nor to a friend, and not to an adoption agency. In their minds and in their hearts, the only place to go was to the bus stop and to be let off right outside of an abortion clinic. I know lots of girls and some women who have walked into these offices with their whole lifetime’s worth of hopes and dreams and then they walk out a few long hours later a bit weakened by the pain, the loss of blood, and the starkness and sterility of what is now real.
And I know a woman who one day, many years ago, found herself sitting on the blue end of one of those little plastic strips. She was terrified. Of course she was. She was 25, unmarried, dating a guy that she hardly knew. She was like anyone else her age, having sex. As a friend of mine said to me about losing her virginity: “We were dating for awhile, and then we just did it. That is what you do.” And it is the beauty of our youth that we believe that events such as this just cannot be dropped on our lives. After she realized that she was pregnant, she went to the guy and she told him her situation. Of course, this man that she had spent so many close and intimate nights with would understand the amazing emotional complexities swirling in this woman’s mind, and he, surely he, would know what to do.
The haze of one confession gave way to another, and the truth of the matter turned out to be that this man was not what we call “monogamous”. He was a dad, he was a husband, and he was telling the woman all of this for the very first time. Disbelief turned into shock in a breakneck time. Soon there was rage, and a wounding, and a grief.
Every problem has a solution. I believe that often, when we do not find ourselves pressed, then we hastily conclude that solutions do not exist. When we are backed against the wall, and there is nowhere for us to go, then the solutions come to mind, and our bodies take the easiest route. If the current is to strong, then we swim with it, regardless of where it may be taking us. This woman found her solution in borrowing the amount of money that it required to have an abortion. She called the clinic, gave them details about her body, and she hung up the receiver with an appointment for the next morning.
She went to spend the night with her sister. She had been living at home, and she just could not go there. How could she? How could anyone walk in the door and look into the eyes of the people that had raised her from birth and had given her life and nourishment and love? How could she face them? Many girls, of all ages, have been able to do this, but not this one. She could have gone to a friend’s house. She could have gone to an old pal who would have supported her, who would have cared and loved her, and would have said: “Listen honey, you just do what you want to do. You can’t raise a child! You don’t want to go through a pregnancy. Yeah. You do what you have to do. That will be fine by me.” But she did not go to one of these friends. No, she went to her sister’s house, and from there the thoughts and the memories and the experiences of the person that she grew up with were swirling in her mind. The sister would plead with her. “You can’t do this. You just can’t. Please. This is a baby. This could be the only child that you ever have. Reconsider. Cancel the appointment. Think it over some more. Oh, please, please.” The sister would pray and the sister would cry, but the woman with the baby sat in silence. She wanted to be numb. She wanted to watch some television.
Watching the tube that night, it was no ordinary night. They were watching a network, one of the big three. It was a weekday night, and it was primetime. The summer air of August was at its usual dank and sweaty peak in Georgia, and in those split seconds between programming and commercials you could hear the steady rhythm and hum of the wall air conditioning unit. From one game show to another. To the local news. To the big shows. But tonight, to the two sibling’s surprise, there would be no normal broadcasting. Tonight there was a preacher on the TV.
I have heard it said that Billy Graham, the patriarch of the American Faith in the 20^th Century, spent about an hour and half talking about abortion. Maybe it was less. Maybe it was just a paragraph, or a sentence, or maybe it was a the whole speech. But Billy Graham, that old preacher, was talking about abortion. And Billy Graham was getting inside of this woman’s head. And the sister was sitting in disbelief at this coincidence, her eyes darting to the television and to her sister, and then back to Reverend Graham. Disbelief. Awe. Nervousness. How was the women going to receive what she was hearing? By the end of the special broadcast, the woman was in tears. The sister cried. The sister’s young kids came in to the living room and studied the curious adults, having no idea why everyone was so upset. Through her streaming tears, all the pregnant woman could utter was “Should I call to cancel?” and the sister cried, “No. Don’t touch the phone. Just don’t go. Just stay here.”
And so it was. And so it came to be that on April 30^th of the following year, I made my way into this world. And so it is that I have grown up with a lot of help, and a lot of struggles, and a lot of love. I could never be able to express to you, with the sliding of my fingers across these little black keys, what it means to me that my mother did not get an abortion. The most that I can tell you is that miracles happen, whether they come from God, or angels, or through coincidence. I’m here on a chance. A decision had been made about my fate, and life was not in the cards. Breath takes on a new depth when we stop to realize that it is more than automatic, that it is not a forgone conclusion.
Life is beautiful. It is not a product, a good, or a service. It is not something to be invested in, to be valued, or to be traded on. This is a symphony that is a living, breathing person, and should not be confused with statistics and economics. Aborting a pregnancy, although it may be the easy way out, should not be so easy, so efficient, so commonplace. I know that there are exceptions to the rule. Anytime in the past 30 years that the debate has come up, it always ends up on the question of rape victims, incestuous relationships, and the life or death of the child’s mother. We are all aware of these questions, but I not here to tell you how to vote or how to think. I have my opinions on these issues, and they are open to change. I know that the water gets muddy up in the deep end of the pool.
I am typing this chapter, and I am a somewhat well functioning human being. And there are trillions of cells working in concert to produce these muddled ramblings. And I cannot think that someone would have the right or privilege to deny me that. Whether that denial comes today, tomorrow, or 25 years ago. This is my body, and regardless of how sloppy it may be, I’m rather attached to it, and no one should be able to decide what happens to it.
The question is usually diverted by men. Passed on to their counterparts, and they say that it is up to a woman. That this is their discussion. I agree. But being that I was a day away from not existing, I feel obligated to join in. Let us not be a people that look at people through the lenses of economics, but rather let us hear the symphony, the concert, the meter of the poetry of art, of brothers and sisters, and friends that make up this world community.