It was winter January 1991, and the sound of the school bell rang throughout the quads signaling to us that we had five minutes to get to class, but I stood motionless as kids hurried past my boyfriend and me. “Just think about it okay? we can talk later,” he said as he rushed off to class.
I thought about it alright. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was in disbelief that he would even ask me to think about having an abortion. Yes, I was seventeen years old and a month and a half pregnant. Things had just gotten very real for both of us, but terminating my pregnancy was never an option. My mom and dad brought it up last night and wanted me to talk to you. I kept repeating his words over and over in my head. I was dumbfounded. Honestly, I would have expected this from my parents but not his. They were both heavily involved in the Catholic Church, one was our confirmation teacher, while the other sang in the choir, and to top it off, my boyfriend was an altar boy. Plus, Catholics don’t believe in abortion. So I thought.
I knew things would be tough. I also knew that the odds were stacked up against us, but I was determined to make it work. No one was going to harm my child.
My boyfriend and I did eventually get married. It wasn’t easy. It was hard. By the age of 21, we had two little girls. We struggled and we both made horrible decisions in our marriage. Three years into our marriage we decided to separate, but a week after we decided to go our separate way I found out that I was carrying our third child. I can remember the following moment like it was January 1991 again but this time I was in the kitchen and he had just grabbed a beer out from the fridge, “My mom and I were talking and I think it would be best if you got an abortion.” Here we go, again. I answered with a flat-out no. We argued because that’s what we always did. Giving it another go was not an option. His lack of wiliness to go to counseling proved that. I didn’t know what to do, but I wasn’t going to murder our unborn child.
I was in my early twenties, divorced, and raising our three kids on my own for some time. I was lost, broke and at times working one to three jobs. I was struggling to fight through such dark moments. Back then, no one spoke about postpartum depression but I struggled with suicidal thoughts daily for a very long time. But never once did I think that life would be better if only …… if only I had aborted my children.
They were not mine, but God’s.
Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.James 1:17
Children are a heritage from the LORD, offspring a reward from him. 4 Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one’s youth. 5 Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them. They will not be put to shame when they contend with their opponents in court.Psalm 127: 3-5
Regardless of how rebellious I was or where I stood in my spiritual life, I never forgot or denied that God was the creator of all things and most importantly, I knew that a child already born or one growing in a mother’s womb was made in His image.
It is His will not ours.