Being there has a way of changing how you see things. This is reality. Life, death, hell, sin. Everything matters. This isn’t pretend.
I had been down to Planned Parenthood a few times before, praying and watching, mostly. That was before I had a baby of my own. After Peter was born, I started calling out to the women as they went in, their bellies full of life. And as they left.
Being down there with your firstborn son has a way of making all those realities come through with even more intensity and clarity than they did before. I had taken Peter with me before, but it had been a while, and I guess it all added up to making this time different. I strapped him into the car seat and
started to drive home.
“They kill babies there,” I told him. My voice was shaking.
What am I doing? He’s eighteen months old. He can’t even understand me.
“God makes every baby and He puts them in their mama’s belly so they’ll be safe and warm.”
Is this what moms are supposed to do? I mean, good moms? Do good moms tell their baby boys about things like this?
“But sometimes the mama doesn’t want the baby so she goes to that place, and then they kill the baby.”
How am I supposed to help this boy become a man? The kind of man that will be able to do something for these littlest ones?
“It’s really sad, and it’s wicked.”
We passed the hospital where Peter was born, headed home. I didn’t know what else to say. I think I might have prayed for him to grow up to be strong and courageous. I hope I did anyway.