You are old enough to read the sign he was holding, old enough to understand he was talking about cutting up babies, but what you couldn't figure out was why.
You came to me for that. I had to explain to you that not all wombs are safe places. I used the gentlest words I could, but murder gently worded is still ugly. You said that word even before I did. It took you less than ten seconds. Murder. Everyone has a right to live. Everyone.
You were fierce, and you were weeping.
I will not ask you to stop crying, and I won't tell you that you shouldn't be so angry.
I will tell you that it is okay for that ache to cut deep.
I hope that twenty-three years later, when your daughter is sitting on your lap asking these same questions, that you'll still have tears and anger.
I know I do.
You couldn't understand how it was that people couldn't see life when it was right in front of them. We talked of blinded eyes and our need for a lamp for our feet, a light for our path. Of the bonds of grace that keep us from such darkness, that give us eyes to see.
And we talked about resistance-- not by street signs that scare children but by arms linked with other broken-hearted-brave men and women. How we open our hands and do what we can. You know where your Giving Jar is going now. You know why we pray for crisis pregnancy ministries and churches and women who have believed lies. You know your God cares for those babies no one wants. You know what you'll tell your daughter, even what want you'll tell the President.
That's where you are right now, with your baby doll beside you, writing a protest
letter in your notebook. I wrote one too, when I was your age. My mother helped me mail it. I will help you.
When you first realized what that sign meant, you said you wanted to move to an island where all babies would be safe. I would love to live on that island with you. But I had to tell you that we can't outrun sin. We carry it with us. It hounds us and haunts us. The only hope for our murderous hearts is an entirely new heart. The only refuge is Jesus. Our safe place isn't an island but a city on a hill. I will live in that city with you.
And when we at last see the glory of our King cover the earth as the water covers the seas, we will know we are forever home.