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When
I met Brad I had no intention of starting a serious relationship.
I was just a high school freshman after all. Brad was a year
older and very handsome. I couldn't believe he would even
want to talk to me. He was perfect in every way. I loved that
he paid attention to me and thought that I was beautiful.
Every night, he called me to say goodnight.
Our
four years together had not been easy. Friends told me they
saw him with other girls. My heart was broken again and again
as I wrestled with the question, "Why am I not enough
for him? What am I missing?" I didn't have the courage
to do what I needed to do -- that is, to break off the relationship
and refocus on school and girl friends. But, at the time,
it felt like he was all I had -- even if he hurt me. A reassuring
word and a glance from those electric blue eyes was all it
took to convince me that I was too jealous, that he was committed
to me, and that we would always be together.
We
actually broke up for two months after Brad went to college, while
I was in my last year of high school. But his charm won me over
again. This time as I was walking down the stage to be crowned
Homecoming Princess. He had some of his fraternity brothers hold
up a big sign that said he loved me and needed me in his life.
Everyone at school thought that was true love. I was overwhelmed.
True love was something I longed to have.
Two
weeks after that night, I landed in the doctor's office, pregnant
and facing the hardest decision of my life. I was there for
an abortion. Brad had been willing to support whatever choice
I made. He said, "We don't have to do this. We could
get in my car and drive away. We could get married and start
a family." But I had earned a college scholarship. I
had a bright future ahead of me. Besides, I couldn't bear
the thought of telling my parents. Fear drove me to a decision
I would soon regret.
I
remember wondering if leukemia hadn't taken my real dad's
life when I was five, how things might have been different.
My family and I had done all the "right things"
to make sure God spared his life. We prayed. We lighted candles
for him daily. Still he slipped away, and I gave up on the
idea of a loving God. Six years later I had a new dad - a
police officer who brought four children of his own to our
new family. My hopes for regaining a sense of love and security
ran high. But a year later, my stepfather, the one I hoped
would fill the void of love I felt, began to sexually abuse
me.
The
waiting room had been crowded. Every chair was filled and
others stood. "We couldn't all be making a mistake, could
we?" I wondered. After a 3-hour wait, I was growing anxious.
Brad came in to sit, then left to smoke again. I just wanted
it to be over.
Finally,
the receptionist called my name and led me to a counseling room.
There, a middle-aged woman told me to watch a video, inserted
the tape and walked out. I felt so alone. Some of the girls on
the screen chose adoption. But I felt I could never carry a child
just to give her away. What if she were to come and find me someday
to tell me what a bad mother I had been? Besides there was that
other secret nobody knew about, the one that might affect the
health of my baby.
Bulimia.
I called it just keeping my weight down. My mother had always
warned me of the importance of first impressions. Girls who
were going to be "somebody," weren't chubby. I had
been purging my body since I was 14. Lots of times my abused
body felt the effects. No, abortion was the only option that
I felt I could consider.
"Sign
these papers," the woman said upon reentering the room.
"Now," she continued very routinely, "what
are some reasons you want this procedure done today?"
I took a deep breath and repeated the words that I had forced
myself to say all day long: "I just received a scholarship
to college. I am going to be somebody. I cannot have a baby."
The woman smiled and assured me I was making a good decision
and that everything would be okay. I took some comfort in
her words.
In
another room, an ultrasound was performed. The attending nurse
continued to walk in and out of the room. I wondered if something
was wrong. I heard her say, "I can't find anything. We
might have an ectopic pregnancy." My counselor informed
me that an ectopic pregnancy meant that it had to be removed
or would cause death. Immediately the lady came back into
the room, accompanied by a tall man in a white coat. I tried
to stay focused on the questions my counselor was asking me:
"What profession do you want to go into?" "Where
are your friends going to college?" They continued to
move the probe over me and look at the screen. My counselor
held my hand.
Then
came the sound of a vacuum. I looked at my counselor and blurted
out, "Did I tell you I just got a scholarship to college
and was nominated for Who's Who of American High School Students?"
I whispered to myself, "I'm going to be somebody."
In
the recovery room I was given juice and crackers and told to stay
there until I felt ready to walk. The woman next to me told me
this was her third abortion. I could not stay there any longer.
I left even though I still felt dizzy.
"What
to Expect Now" read the heading on the paper the nurse
gave me as I left. For the first time, I read that potential
problems associated with my abortion, included heavy bleeding,
possible hemorrhaging, future miscarriage, and impaired future
fertility. The list continued but the tears that welled up
kept me from finishing. I was advised that I would probably
have cramps "no stronger than my period." If they
worsened, I should contact my doctor.
The
nausea started later that evening. Cramps followed. They were
not so bad at first, but by the end of dinner they were getting
intense. My family and I were finishing our decorating for Christmas,
now just two weeks off. Even as I smiled and helped decorate the
tree, I wondered if anyone would catch me wince in pain, or notice
a look of guilt, of sadness or shame that I felt taking over my
mind and my heart.
Two
months later, Brad and I were still together but he began
to tell me that I wasn't any fun anymore -- that I had changed.
My guess is that I just wasn't the same with him. I felt numb
and I wasn't up to pretending that I was still a happy go
lucky kid. My innocence was gone. My trust in Brad was gone.
Even when we continued having sex, there was dullness, a heaviness
that wouldn't go away. I didn't even really want to have sex
with him anymore, but he kept begging and I always gave in.
I began to hate him for that and to hate me for betraying
myself.
That
summer I resolved to change my life and to forget my past. I started
dating other guys. On occasion, Brad and I went out. When we did,
I felt the pain of it all sweep over me again.
A
year after the abortion, I was in college, working to prove that
my choice was not in vain -- that I would succeed in life. I moved
into an apartment with two friends, where I learned to escape
in the party life. There I could forget the past. There I didn't
have to think.
But
parties inevitably end. And in every place, in every decision,
my life was affected by my abortion decision. After my classes,
I worked at a preschool center. Inside I secretly hoped that I
could make up for what I did. But there was pain there too. I
would look at those kids and wonder, what would my child have
looked like? There were even times when I was afraid to touch
or carry them. What if I hurt them? Do I really deserve to care
for children when I couldn't even take responsibility for my own?
I felt I deserved the punishment of not enjoying children.
Then
came the night my friend Cindy died. I was supposed to have
met her at 9:30pm at the McDonald's across town. I arrived
a half hour late, so she left without me. Witnesses said she
ended up at a party and went for a beer run with a guy in
his new car. She loved cars. The accident report said both
of them were legally drunk. "If I had been there on time,
would things be different?" I couldn't help but wonder.
"Could I have prevented it? Would I have died with her?"
Cindy
had
grown up in a Christian home. She had never mentioned her faith.
It seemed the whole town turned out for her funeral. The pastor
had talked a lot about Heaven. He talked about Christ dying on
the cross for our sins.
I
looked at her in the casket one last time, a final glimpse
of her to remember forever. As I did, I turned and studied
her mother for a moment. She was crying, and her husband's
arms held her, keeping her from collapsing. "Is that
how a mom is to mourn for her child?" I questioned. "Should
we weep and let the whole world know we no longer have our
baby?"
I
felt a deep sense of grief for my friend Cindy. Further, her death
forced me to think about my own father -- and about my baby. Is
my baby in Heaven? I felt very alone in dealing with my abortion.
Abortion is a subject that is easy to talk about before it becomes
personal. There had been a time when I was convinced that abortion
is simply a woman's right. But once abortion became part of my
own experience I discovered its secret shame.
Two
months after that funeral, we threw a big party for my roommate's
21st birthday. Some of Cindy's other friends joined us. It
felt good to be together, like we all shared the same heartache.
Brent was one of her friends. He invited us to a Bible study
his mom was starting. I laughed out loud. He continued, saying
it would be interesting to try to understand what happened
to Cindy after death. Even through the blare of the music,
the laughing, the noise of the crowd, I heard that invitation
and I was intrigued by it.
Bible
study wasn't at all what I expected. We all sat around together,
Bibles in our laps, looking up Scripture and talking about
how it applied to our lives. I listened, but without believing.
I kept wondering just what these Christians wanted from me.
Do they just want to be able to say they had a good "turn
out"? Were they going to ask me for money?
In
those first weeks, I learned that the Bible says that God is my
provider (Gen. 22:1-14), and that He is trustworthy -- even when
I do not see how, circumstances can work out for good in the end.
I heard that God is the Lord who heals (Exodus 15:22-26), and
that He is like a parent to me - directing me and keeping me safe.
These were radical statements.
I
hid my internal struggle behind intellectual questions. At
the Bible study I openly argued, "How can you know that
Christianity is the true religion? How can you say we have
to believe in Jesus to go to Heaven?" Yet, on the inside
I felt convicted. I knew I was a sinner. I wondered what it
meant to "give my life to Christ." Would I have
to leave everything and everyone I know? Again, fear kept
me moving, only this time toward God.
"I'm
not coming back," I told Diane, the Bible study leader.
But the issues God had allowed to surface continued to haunt
me. "If there is a God, then why did He let so much happen
to me? Why didn't He heal my Dad? Why didn't He stop my stepfather?"
I knew Diane was stating the truth when she said to me, "Kim,
you seem to need all the answers before you trust that Christ
is who He says He is. But when you die and stand before Him
you will have no excuse. You heard His message and are denying
it."
My
disease of the spirit -- my unbelief -- plagued me in much the
same way that anorexia continued to steal life from my physical
body. At 22, I had continued my destructive cycle for eight years.
I called Overeaters Anonymous once, but didn't have the courage
to stay on the line. God was aware of my desperate need -- both
physically and spiritually.
One
night I was feeling particularly alone. Despair pulled at
me. My response was to order a large pizza and polished off
the whole thing. "I have to get it out!" I screamed
to myself. So, I did my usual trip to the bathroom and threw
it up. Suddenly I felt light-headed and that nagging pain
in my chest. I promised myself this would be the last time.
Then everything went dark and I felt myself slip to the floor.
There's no one to save me, I thought in my helplessness. "What
if I die? Where will I go? How can Jesus forgive me?"
The
truths shared at the Bible study returned to me at that frightening
moment. The words I had heard with my ears, began to make
sense: Believe that Jesus is God and can take away sin. I
still didn't understand it all, but at that moment, I did
believe. "You are God," I declared to myself and
to God. "I believe you can forgive me. Please forgive
me. But can you forgive murder? I killed my baby. It was sin.
I always knew it was wrong."
I
lay on the floor for a long time. I continued to ask God to forgive
me. I realized that there was no other hope for me - no other
way out of the mess I had made. I prayed and cried there, on the
cold hard floor, until I finally slept.
When
I returned to Bible study the following week, I listened with
new understanding. If there were answers for me in the Bible,
I was committed to finding them -- and believing them. My lonely
meeting with God had convinced me that God knew everything about
me (John 3:19-20) and loved me anyway!
My
first lesson as a new believer was about the seriousness of
sin and its destructive nature. That meant dealing with my
abortion. God showed me the selfishness that was at the root
of my decision to abort. He knew I had hoped to escape the
responsibility for my sinful choice to have sex outside of
marriage. (Heb 13:4) He also knew that I took the life of
my child because I didn't want to be burdened with a baby.
As
I looked back on that dark time following the abortion, it struck
me that so many of my decisions then were based on my need to
push the reality of a baby out of my mind. I had built a wall
of denial in order to protect myself from the pain of guilt in
admitting that I took the life of my own child. But all my efforts
to forget didn't take away the guilt and shame I felt before God.
My
next step had to be admitting that my sin -- all the ways I had
violated God's commands in my life -- kept me from a relationship
with a holy God. When I came to understand that Jesus was the
only One who could take that sin from me and could reconcile me
to the Father, then - and only then - could I stop trying to heal
myself, stop trying to make up for my past? In God's Word, I learned
that God promises to heal me from my pain of guilt and to carry
my sorrow. He has taken the punishment I deserve as a sinner,
and delivered me from an eternity apart from Him. Jesus made it
all possible by dying on the Cross, then rising again to show
Himself to be stronger than death. A tremendous burden was lifted
from me.
Four
years into my journey with Christ, I participated in a Post
Abortion Counseling and Education class. It was during that
very special learning and sharing time that God led me to
understand what He alone had done for me on the cross, and
I asked for forgiveness for my abortion. In the Old Testament
book of Micah, the prophet declares that God pardons iniquity.
He does not keep his anger. He will have compassion on us,
"casting our sin into the depths of the sea." This
was what I had truly longed for all my life-God's forgiveness.
Love from my parents, boyfriend, or friend was never enough.
What I desired, above all else, was to know that God would
forgive me for everything and still love me.
Like
so many post-abortive women, however, shame continued to be
an obstacle for me. I feared rejection from those who might
learn of my past. To protect myself, I shared my secret with
very few. Again, God used the Bible Study class to instruct
me on just that issue. In Isaiah 54:4, God states, "Do
not fear, for you will not be ashamed; Neither be disgraced,
for you will not be put to shame; For you will forget the
shame of your youth, And will not remember the reproach of
your widowhood anymore." In verses 7 and 8, the passage
reads, "For a mere moment I have forsaken you, but with
great mercies I will gather you. With little wrath I hide
my face from you for a moment; but with every lasting kindness
I will have mercy on you, says the Lord your redeemer."
As I meditated on these words, God released me from the guilt
and shame of my sin.
Memories
of my abortion return now and then. I often have to remind myself
that I am truly forgiven and deeply loved by God. These memories,
however, are no longer characterized by pain, guilt or shame.
With joy I anticipate seeing my child in Heaven. There will always
be someone missing in my life. I may have to face infertility.
The future may bring the sadness of knowing that my child missed
the experience of a loving family. These are earthly consequences
of my sin. But I have hope in knowing that there are no eternal
consequences for my sin, because Jesus paid the price for me.
I've been forgiven and set free. You can be, too.
What
a wonderful God we have. He is the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
the source of every mercy, and the one who so wonderfully comforts
and strengthen us in our hardships and trials. And why does he
do this? So that when others are troubled, needing our sympathy
and encouragement, we can pass on to them this same help and comfort
God has given us (2 Corinthians 1:3-4).
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