"For the first time, I wouldn’t let myself look away. I forced myself to see what I have spent years avoiding seeing.
And what I saw weren’t just body parts and pools of red. I saw a
baby—bloody and broken, but a baby nevertheless. I saw a baby with a
sweet little face, a button nose, full lips, and the most delicate of
fingers. I saw a baby who was so tiny, so beautiful, so dead.
Much to my surprise, I wasn’t repulsed. I wasn’t disgusted. I was
simply heartbroken. I couldn’t stop the tears. I wanted so badly to hold
that little baby. I wanted to love her and kiss her and tell she was
beautiful. I wanted to find out who she was and who she could be, to
discover how, in what unrepeatable way, she imaged God. All I really
wanted was to know that baby, as I’m sure, in some way, in her heart of
hearts, her mother must have wanted to know her too.
That seeing, that wanting, made the tragedy of abortion more real to
me than it’s ever been. It made me both angrier and sadder—angry at all
the lies people hear about choice and clumps of cells and sad at all the
other little wondrous lives lost and all the big lives broken. It also
made me more determined than ever to be bolder in my own pro-life
witness—to have more uncomfortable conversations and more difficult
discussions, to care less about what my pro-choice cousins and friends
think of me and to care more about all the little unrepeatable works of
wonder dying in the womb every day."
read the rest of Emily Stimpson's article here.
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