In the waiting room of the doctor's office, I sat — my head propped in my hands — daydreaming. I was
only vaguely aware of the sound of a baby crying. Glancing over, I saw the little one, sitting with her visibly
pregnant mom. I was happy to retreat to my own world. Looking out the window I could imagine the feel of the
mid-summer sunshine falling across my face, the smell of fresh green grass mixed with wild flowers — and
him. In my dream, my handsome husband takes my hand and walks our son and me to the playground. This man makes
me feel safe and secure. I know he will never hurt me or leave me. Ours would be a "happily ever after"
story.
Reality stole away the moment. And I wondered if it would steal away the dream altogether. From the window I only
saw Brad, sitting on his car smoking a cigarette. Just have the abortion, I told myself. We are too young to be
parents.
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 strengthens 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).
