A Place I Never Thought I’d Be . . .

Yesterday was a first for me.

I went to an abortion clinic.

Not for an abortion, and it wasn’t actually a functioning clinic. The health department shut it down a while back because of code violations, and it was bought by a Christian businessman and will be turned into a memorial eventually.

I know some people who’ve had abortions, and I know that each woman approaches something like that from a different perspective. So, I didn’t feel judgmental. But the place felt so heavy. . . I was personally really moved. In fact, had I been by myself, I think there would have been many tears.

There was a waiting area, three or four rooms labeled “counseling” and then the rooms labeled “procedure.” From each procedure room, there was a small window into a center work room of sorts. Of course, they took all of their equipment and such, but it didn’t take much imagination to think of how it must have been. In fact, the one room still had stains on the floor. I had to choke back a big, gulping sob. I’ve visited a concentration camp in Germany, and this gave me the exact same feeling. What a holocaust has surely taken place there. I think it was also made more real to me by the fact that I’m carrying a little boy and I receive daily reminders that he is indeed a living little soul. We were told that there is evidence that this clinic, when faced with imminent closure, began doing as many abortions as possible, some being as late-term as 6 or 7 months. My baby is only 5.

We walked from there past the doctor’s office (why would you go to the trouble to become a doctor to do this?) into a room marked “recovery.” This is where we stopped to pray. As I thought about how it would be to walk into this place with my little boy safely growing inside and to leave it empty, I wondered how on earth true recovery would ever take place. For me, even if and when my body recovered and I was free to leave, I know that my spirit would have been crushed. It was a heavy place — I found myself putting my hands on my belly, as if I could protect my child from even the thought that someone would hurt it. And as we prayed, I couldn’t stop the tears. I didn’t even really try. It felt like the honorable thing to do — maybe someone should  pay tribute to these little lives, and maybe we should invite the sorrow that surely grips the heart of God over this cruel slaughter to touch our emotions.

I’m crying again. Not only did the 30-year history of this clinic grip me with the incredible loss of infant human life, but it also hurts my heart that so many women found themselves in such a predicament that they were willing to do this. Surely we aren’t doing enough.

Surely I’m not doing enough.