I held little Henrik and tickled his pajama-ed belly. His deep dimple appeared in his wide-smiling cheek and I put my fingertip in it. The hollow that shows up only when he’s full of joy.
And as I rocked him in my arms and walked ’round the rooms of our home, my shoulders shook with deepest sorrow and my eyes poured it right out. I had just watched the above footage, see, and my soul was pierced, again.
How? How can I help to end this tide of infanticide?
How can I tell that scared mama whom I don’t know that she carries a gift within her; that arms are aching to bring up her baby, loved, cherished, wanted. That the inconvenience of carrying to term and giving birth would be eclipsed by the JOY, THE SHOUTING BIG JOY, of life coming crying into the room, whole, new! If she could see the radiance of the infertile woman’s face as that baby is placed in her ever-longing arms, oh!
Or, mercy, what if when she finally lets herself love that baby moving around inside; what if she knew that at nearly any church there’s a whole bunch of us crazy-affectionate ladies who would help her keep her baby? Would throw a big old happy baby shower and celebrate life in all its messy glory? What if?
Because, ladies, we aren’t just pro-life, we’re pro-mamas. We’re for life-lived-joyfully, women made new, families being supported, and barren arms filled.