A dark day in our nation's history is upon us, as we commemorate the 41st year of Roe vs. Wade, the surreal Supreme Court decision that ignored the whole of modern biological science and reached back to the ancients in order to clumsily, fraudulently declare that we, uh, don't really know when human life begins.
Riiiiight. We just can't figure that one out.
This from the "enlightened" ones.
Just like that, with the stroke of a pen, the shelter of a mother's womb became the most dangerous place to reside in America. The members of our human family who are the most defenseless, the most voiceless, the most innocent, the most in need of our protection, became disposable and thus subsequently disposed of to the tune of some 55 million. Yawn! It's a number, and we are numb.
The victims behind the statistics are easily ignored when we aren't actually tripping over their dead bodies in the street, and when Gosnell-type horrors are quickly glossed over and forgotten.
But individual stories still have the power to change everything, and I read one recently that gets to the heart of it all.
As so many have before her, Grazie Pozo Christie, M.D., moved from her perch in the pro-"choice" camp to the middle of the March for Life, tramping through the snow and holding the very signs she used to mock:
[On January 22], the yearly March for Life will take place at our nation's capital. Hundreds of thousands of tremendously dedicated people will march, probably in horribly frigid weather, and some from very far away. The media will politely avert their gaze, as will most of the cosmopolitan denizens of the city. They will feel vaguely sorry for the yokels and wingnuts who trudge through the snow with their silly homemade signs, their hearts full of the vain hope that they can somehow turn back time by praying hard enough. There will also be those who are angry at the sight of the marchers, and see in them a desire for the return of back alley butchers and the shaming of girls who got in a spot of trouble.
I used to be one of those who felt sorry for the idiots who spent their money putting up signs along the Florida Turnpike saying things like: "Abortion stops a beating heart," accompanied by an unpleasant depiction of an embryo. And then one day I was pushed off my horse and I became one of them. I think it happens like that for many people: years of puzzled distaste and then bingo! You're out there too with your silly sign on the side of the road, cringing at rude finger gestures. There is a moment when passion becomes ignited, and you find yourself able to withstand indifference, hopelessness and hostility, even welcoming them.
Read the rest of the article, here, to see what (or who) pushed her off that horse, and how abortion is, at base, a failure to love.
Let us pray and work to end abortion in our nation. Forty-one years of this bloody anniversary is enough.
"Something nonhuman doesn't become human by getting older and bigger; whatever is human is human from the beginning." -- Randy Alcorn
Please remember to pray for all the mothers who have lost their children to abortion, and please pray for the marchers that actually made it to D.C. this year. My nephew's college group had to cancel its trip due to the storm, and I know his wasn't the only one.