It is a curious sound…the heartbreak of Heaven.
It’s not the echoing cries of many, reverberating off walls that don’t exist, in the form of prayers and questions, begging for what others have or longing for another chance at what they gave up.
It’s not the muffled beating of calloused hearts, hardening in response to reason over recognition, and logic over love.
It’s not the cracking of countless bones, made brittle by grief and breaking under the weight of shame and regret.
It’s not the silence that bears the weight of hundreds of millions of souls sent to earth and then returned to Heaven without a chance to ever become what they were meticulously handmade to be.
It’s not even the collective inhale of every heavenly being, holding their breath in response to seeing the fury filled eyes of the Father. Eyes filled with fire, not with passion or adoration, but rage. Rage that only comes from the heart of a Father, not born from hate, but all-consuming love, knowing that within His hands is the ability to end every moment of suffering His children face, every needless pain His children endure, every unimaginable decision His children make, and then their defiant refusal to come to Him for help.
The sound of Heaven’s heartbreak is the cries of anguish shrilled throughout Heaven by the Father who watches as the works of His hands are destroyed without consideration for the time He took to build them; every feature, every eyelash, and every nerve ending that He intended to light up with experience. It’s sorrow that comes from watching the death, not just of a child, but of an answer…a promise…a prayer.
A fetus. Nothing but a cluster of cells, no rights, life, or personality…just cells.
Do you know it was a fetus that was the first to rejoice at the existence of Jesus? Not a man, not a woman, nor a breathing baby, but a fetus nestled snugly in the womb of his mother, leaping in response to the news of the soon coming Savior.
I am not an expert on anything. I make no blanket statements and pass no judgement to both the decided and deciding woman. I understand you and I love you, regardless. Your life and your health do matter, just as much as the life and health of the child your body has the potential to grow. I have only this perspective to offer.
A fetus is not just a fetus, it’s an answer.
The problem with the way we are thinking about the unborn is that we are focusing entirely on what they are, not what they have the potential to be.
Something incredible happens within the womb, not just fetal development, but divine instillation of purpose. Dreams are born from the same wombs that birth sons and daughters. Labor produces passion in the earth, and purpose comes by way of a narrow birth canal. Women who are willing to offer their womb to do so, do not just labor to birth babies, but answers.
The world is crying out in prayer and pleading, and God is sending the answers by way of willing wombs. Wombs that do not simply birth children, but answers to prayers long prayed, cures long searched for, and hope desperately needed.
Babies cannot be born except for through the wombs of women. Without us, they will never be here. And I wonder…is it my right, as the womb that promise is born through, under the banner of my own health to decided what promises enter earth or not? Once, I thought it was. But today…I don’t think it is.
Roughly thirty-one years and three months ago woman who I've never met, will never know, and can never thank labored a promise into the earth that would change the trajectory of my life. With fear and trepidation, she found out that deep in her belly a sweet baby boy was growing. Though he was not planned, and she knew she didn't want or couldn't care for him, she selflessly decided to let that baby grow within her, putting her life on hold and giving her body to grow and sustain him.
That baby would eventually burst into the world, wet and wrinkly with fists clenched, crying out and filling his tiny lungs with a first breath that, without her sacrifice, he would have never known. I imagine her holding him, looking into his eyes, wondering who he would become and what he would do. Having just a quick moment to reminisce over every kick and roll that she felt within her. Here he was...a living breathing part of herself...and knowing that she could not give him all he needed, she handed him over to someone else to love and to care for.
All those years and months ago, this young woman had two choices, abort a fetus or birth a promise, and to my joy she chose to birth a promise.
As I weep at my desk, writing details of an event I can never know but only imagine, I celebrate her. Two rooms away, that promise, a pastor, father, husband and friends sits holding his own two sons. Without her choice to I would be alone, and the sweet boys that fill my heart with joy would never have had their own birthdays. My legacy is tied up in a woman I will never know because she chose an option greater than herself.
She didn’t decide to keep and ultimately birth a baby that day, she decided to give her body to birth an answer into the earth.
An answer to my own prayer that wouldn’t even be prayed for a over a decade after her son was born; and an answer to every person who would meet him or hear him preach, a man who would grow up to give his life to point people to the only true Hope and Life the world has to offer.
Countless answered prayers are credited to this unknown woman. Her willingness. He sacrifice. Her choice.
As women, the choice has been and will always be ours.
Today I find myself thinking this…no matter what I thought or did in the past, if in the future my womb finds itself pregnant with a promise, I will choose to let it be born, if not for my sake, for the sake of the world who is unknowingly and desperately longing for it.