Memories of murder at 12 weeks: What is his name?

“Yep, he’s about twelve-weeks.”

What is his name?

Today the deepest places of my heart have changed. Today I mourned the loss of my first son, the loss of God’s precious gift of time, and the loss of witness to so many wounded, scared and yet condemned people throughout my life and career.

Today, I didn’t lament or mourn things.  Not the money, the foreclosures, the 401(k), the house.  Not even the idea of a godly husband or the years of my purpose lost to my own personal rebellion.

Today, I wept and deeply grieved the things I had thrown away that are treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust corrupt. Not because of lost personal gain, but because others have lost so much at the foot of my rebellion.

Not shame, guilt or condemnation.  Not even blame toward others for my personal choices. 

Just deep sorrow for what should have been. 

What is his name? Who would he be?

What things would bring him laughter and joy? What things would move his heart to tears or light a spark of the same fire in me in him to fight? 

Could his have been a voice of truth for a generation of Black men who seem to have lost their way…listening to what everyone and anyone, but God, says about them? 

During recent years, no matter how often I have tried giving him a name, none have seemed to fit.

I understand now it is because I didn’t give us time to know one another.  I didn’t get to know him through his gestational behaviors.  Unlike my second son, I ended his physical existence before recognizing his personality traits.

Somehow, coming to know his post-birth sleeping patterns, eating patterns, even his preference for consistency, discomfort with change.  Knowing that unlike the stereotypical male impulse, my second son would consider the rewards before taking the jump. 

All male, but uniquely created in God’s image, having the very personality and characteristics God intends – no two are exactly alike.  How much more joy-filled might my second son’s life with the friendship and comradery of his big brother?

I learned all of those personality traits about my second son, beginning as early as our first trimester journey to the rest of his life.  He is sixteen now. I often smile as I watch him react and behave in precisely the way that I knew him to be when he was still tugging on our umbilical cord. 

“Yep, he’s about twelve-weeks.”  The abortionist at the women’s clinic in downtown Richmond, VA, made the statement aloud just after the final suction sound of the vacuum quieted.  Too late for me to change my mind.

It was the very early 90s. I was given the $200 for the procedure by a “friend”, and for a long time justified it as my sin alone, my choice, because I’d paid for it myself.  It need not affect my vote so that other women could have the same choice.

I heard the abortionist clearly, and I never forgot his words.  But, I buried them so deeply that I felt nothing and did not allow myself to think about his twelve-week frame for more than a second – ever.

His arms and legs well formed. His eyes and eyelids visible.  Ten fingers and ten toes. Would he have the same piano hands? And yes, evidence of his “Y” chromosome obvious.  The beginnings of one man whom God would lovingly prepare for one woman.

Today, I even more deeply understand what a wise man meant when he advised me, “This is not about you.” 

Could his have been a life lived well in chasing after the things of God and bringing his peers with him to the journey toward God’s Jeremiah 29:11 plans and purposes for their lives?  Would he be preparing for his bride or already married and preparing for my first grandbaby?

How much different might the cries we hear from the streets today be if his life and the lives of millions of his peers had been cherished enough by his mom or his father to stand for him, no matter the cost? How much have we lost as a family, the church and nation because of the absence of his and his children’s God-given plans, purposes, gifts and ministry?

I have heard data suggesting that as many as 30 percent of abortions are for women identifying as Christian.  How much more might that number be if it included pregnancies caused by men who identify as Christian?   In either case, I know that there are countless million sisters and brothers in the Body of Christ who identify with my story. 

To you I say, God still loves you and Jesus sacrificed himself on the Cross for us despite knowing every wrong decision we would ever make.  If you have not already, repent.  Then receive His complete and total forgiveness.  Forgive yourself and allow yourself to mourn your baby. Then release it to Him to be used to help save others. Don’t get lost in the “what if”. Time is too precious.

I encourage you to share your testimony of His love and compassion, in every place that the Lord gives you release and direction.  Commit to helping scared and hurting young women, who are more afraid of what church people will think than they are of understanding of how purposed and beautifully woven the baby in them is.

Reach out to your local pregnancy center and ask how you may help.  It may be joining their prayer list, volunteering to answer phones, participating in charity races or donating tangible goods to young women.  Nothing is too small.

And vote November 3rd to protect the pre-born.    

Abortion…murder, is not too big for our Lord’s Romans 8:28 promise, “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, and to those who are called according to His purpose.”

This is our Revelation 12:11 moment in history, to “overcome him (Satan) by the blood of the lamb AND the word of our testimonies.”  To speak life and light into the places where we have unique access and authority, because of our deliverance. 

I believe and I decree that together, our redemption stories and becoming the hands and feet of Jesus for distressed pregnant women in our families and communities will work together to utterly crush the demons of abortion. 

To never-Trump Christians, this is the bottom line.  You must choose whether your disdain and the root cause of your hatred for President Trump is more important than your love for every child, formed in their mother’s womb and created in the image of God.  

Decide.  Does your so-called righteous indignation for President Trump’s personality or his past take the altar of your hearts?  Prayerfully consider, who among us is without blemish?  Your arguments of righteous indignation and railing against President Trump not being “a good man”, not being a real Christian, or somehow not being good enough for God to have chosen him to use in our wickedness, as you support an organized party of people committed to murdering as many babies as taxpayer money can fund, is a stench in your prayers to a Holy God. 

Choose this day and know that yours is a choice with everlasting consequences for countless millions worldwide who have yet to be named.