"Pro-choice" rhetoric leads to some dangerous places. When the preborn is disqualified from personhood because of her lack of self-awareness, intellectual honesty requires us to also disqualify newborns.
November 29, 2010 Dear Judah, Your heart was supposed to start beating today or tomorrow, according to my maternity nursing textbook, but instead, I spent the day grieving the end of your incredibly short life. I don’t know how to express the feelings within me. When I began to suspect your existence just a few days ago, my heart swelled with new emotions. I felt this strange new mix of excitement, fear, joy, trepidation, and mostly love. Perhaps it was the love that surprised me the most. How could I love with such fierceness someone I had never met? How could I have such a depth of affection for someone whose face I had never seen—someone who didn’t yet even have a face? When I looked at the line on the pregnancy test, I was amazed. Suddenly, merely in looking at that positive result, I had taken on a new identity. I was a mother. You gave me a new title, and with that title, a new, sacred responsibility. And although it was not a title or responsibility that...
On our journey to the east coast a couple of months ago, I packed my bag with novels of mystery and cheap suspense thrill. Aubrie's selection: the current hot pick some argue is on track to hold its own among the library of American classics-- The Help , written by Kathryn Stockett . When I inquired into the plot of this supposed chef d'oeuvre , Aubrie explained: "It's about maids." Somehow that sounded less than riveting to me, though her fingers flipped the pages so madly that it was clear there was something about the book she couldn't resist. Thus, when her birthday rolled around last month, I decided to end our celebration with a viewing of the film version of this soon to be classic "about maids"---partially because I was confident she would enjoy it, partially because I was so curious to find out what could be so enthralling about such a storyline. And, I admit that I, too, became wound up in this tale of racial bigotry, rare compassion, an...
It’s 4:00 a.m. The 97-year-old man in the bed in front of me is dying. His family has gone home to get some much-needed rest, and I have been here at his bedside for almost three hours, providing comfort care and pain relief to him. I recite Psalm 139 to him from memory. The rich meaning of the words has made it a longtime favorite of mine: “When I was made in the secret place, Your eyes saw my unformed body… All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be.” I don’t know if he can hear me anymore, but I tell the dying man that he is known and loved by God. I tell him that it is not too late to receive forgiveness and eternal life. I tell him how to do so. His breathing is shallow, and he begins to hiccup rhythmically. A moment later, the baby in my womb gets the hiccups, too. The poignancy of the moment startles me. Tonight I am witness to one life that is ending and home to another that is just beginning. Both are immeasurably valuab...
Comments
Post a Comment