I’ve been on holidays. It’s been wonderful. I’ve been with my grandkids—swimming, fishing, camping, eating, even singing. Kids are awesome. Having kids is awesome. Having grandkids is grand awesome. Now, I know some can’t. Many suffer under the unrelenting weight of infertility, longing for children of their own. Others weep daily for their lost children due to accident or disease. The crushing pain of miscarriage and still birth haunts many, leading to deep depression and despair. And many bear the scars of being stolen children or having had their children taken away.
I’ve come back from holidays and my world has gone crazy. America, New York, to be precise. On the 46th anniversary of Roe vs Wade, abortion law has taken a giant leap. New York city is celebrating full term abortions. Not just passing law, but celebrating! Lighting up the World Trade Centre. Painting it pink to party at the passing of the Reproductive Health Act.
Donna Lieberman, Executive Director of the New York Civil Liberties Union, declared, “Today the New York legislature is poised to take a historic vote to protect women’s rights and autonomy … While there is still more to do to ensure New York can be a safe haven for women all over the country, today is a day for long-overdue celebration.” Is that really true? Wouldn’t it be more accurate to limit the safe -haven to the women who are lucky enough to be born already. What about all the unborn women? How safe is New York for them?
This is the first time I’ve ever written a post about abortion. It’s too easy to cause hurt and harm in every direction. Perhaps, the complexity of the matter has kept me quiet. Maybe, I’ve been gutless in the past. So why now? To put it simply, what has just taken place in New York Sate fills me with fear and moves me to tears. I feel compelled to cry out.
There used to be a cut off date for abortion—24 weeks. They’ve taken that away. Not that I approved of any date, but this is a step too far. The thing is, I’ve met a number of children born before 24 weeks. They are alive and healthy today. I’ve walked with couples who’ve spent weeks and months in the NICU, caring and praying for their little ones born at 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28+ weeks. They are precious jewels.
I have a first hand, hands on, deep connection to this matter. Our little girl wasn’t due until 7th January, but she arrived early on 1st October. Do the maths. That’s early. Very very early. More than 14 weeks early. We visited our beautiful girl every single day, sometimes 3 or 4 times, for 97 days in the NICU. We stood by her as she took one step forward and two steps back. We agonised over every setback and rejoiced at every advance. We put life on hold for her. We prayed for her. So many others prayed for her. A treasured daughter, sister, granddaughter, child of God. We watched her grow, develop and mature, day by day, until the day she was due. We had the privilege of seeing what is normally kept hidden—a perfect, precious, baby growing outside instead of inside the womb.
It horrifies me that anyone would celebrate the right to terminate the life of my little girl. Sometimes, there must be an agonising choice to save a mother at the cost of the child. But celebrate? Hold a party? Light up the World Trade Centre? Really? How twisted have we become?
It saddens me that we champion the right to choose over the right to live, and right up until the due date. I don’t trust people. And it deeply worries me that this is not going to be the end.