“How many?” I’m never asked to explain. There are phrases, and words used on the “sidewalk” that need little clarification. They know what I mean, and the question is usually answered without hesitation. Today the answer was nine. Nine moms came to the clinic. And, for the briefest of seconds I felt relief. Relief that the number wasn’t higher. Relief is the new glad here. It never lasts long. The number always brings a realization that only one number will ever truly satisfy that question. Zero. Nine is no substitute for zero. I’d like to think that once you hear the complete question, and answer you’d feel the same way.
“How many women are in the clinic waiting to have an abortion?”
“Nine babies are waiting to die.”
Sadness follows. There are nine lives being decided by people just like me. Women. With no voice, their children are led here. Dads are limited. Grandparents, aunts, uncles’ cousins’ friends, can all be silenced. The mini respite found in “yay, the number isn’t higher,” is followed by sadness that there is a number at all. Sadness over the number of people that will be impacted by the loss of even one. That realization ushers in another feeling.
Guilt, shame or something closely related to it trails in. I would love to tell you that all amounts are the same. Truth is three doesn’t have the same effect as twenty-three. I know it should. That’s where the guilt lies. Sometimes the low number feels like a small win. It’s a twisted sort of hope based on a lower casualty count, but causalities all the same. There is no victory in it, only regret over the awareness of how low my standards really are.
If this were the end of the story, you’d be right to ask, “Why go at all? Why put you yourself though that?”
First, a hardened heart doesn’t feel. It may not be easily broken, but only because it sacrificed the most necessary arm of human connection, compassion. It numbs itself to all things awful, and all things beautiful. It locks out mercy, hope, and every fruit of God. It locks out the divine and the work He is doing in broken people around us, broken people like us. I go to the sidewalk, because I would want someone to go there for me, for my family. I go because the joy I feel over the one, makes it all worth it. I go because God goes there. I believe He wants me there.
Ultimately, He always brings my broken heart back to Him. He is the one who is able. It is clear to me man was never meant for this, to shoulder these burdens. We abandoned His praise and our purpose, to be pawns of the enemy. From the Garden of Eden to fields white, and ready for harvest, we always needed the Lord. The darkness at the corner only reveals how desperately we do. Sidewalk days remind me, “only God.” I describe my trips to the sidewalk at the abortion facility as “the saddest most hopeful thing I do in the week.”
– Shanda
Shanda is a vital member of the Triad Coalition for Life team. Writer, mom, wife and prayer warrior are just some of the many titles that she wears. She can be reached via email: shanda@tc4.life