A DOOR NOT FOUND. On Sunday, our pastor told the sad story of a young, Christian woman who visited the pregnancy center supported by our church. After counseling, she went and had the abortion anyway, and nearly died from complications untreated by the abortion clinic. The clinic, by the way, would not help her with the complications. She called back to the pregnancy clinic and the staff there made arrangements for her to get emergency medical care. The path of convenience once again proved inconvenient in the end. In addition, she is emotionally distraught over the abortion. The clinic did not prepare her for the thought that comes later: the baby is dead. Fortunately, the pregnancy center staff is working with her for emotional recovery. That is as it should be.
As a tribute to the child who did not quite make it into the sunshine, I offer this poem from G. K. Chesterton.
By The Babe Unborn
If trees were tall and grasses short,
As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
Beyond the breaking pale,
If a fixed fire hung in the air
To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
I know what I should do.
In dark I lie: dreaming that there
Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
And living men behind.
Let storm-clouds come: better an hour,
And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
The empires of the night.
I think that if they gave me leave
Within that world to stand,
I would be good through all the dayI spent in fairyland.
They should not hear a word from me
Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
If only I were born.