The Loss of Possibility

They were picketing outside of Planned Parenthood again, I noticed as I drove by this afternoon on my way home from work. It was almost a mob scene, with chanting and gnashing of teeth. In fact, I believe one fellow in a bright red coat had spittle flying from his mouth he was worked up into such a froth. The fervor of the crowd was quite religious, made even more so by the statue of Jesus someone had erected on the sidewalk in front of the building. One large sign read, “Make Love, Not Death,” and another said, “Save the Babies.” It was definitely no secret which side the dozen or so people out there were on.

As I drove by, two of them approached my car with a vague sense of purpose and looks of righteous indignation in their eyes. I checked to make sure my car doors were locked, and they were, and I wished under my breath that the light would turn green so I could leave the picketers in my wake. But it took forever, the shifting of colors, as I tried to look straight ahead and not give worth to the claims of the small group in front of the clinic. I had no doubt that their claims were valid ones, but their method of trying to advance those claims and cause change was largely irrelevant. In fact, it did more to distract from their true purpose than to serve it. The light changed, and I happily drove through, glad to leave behind the statue of Jesus and his loud sycophants.

I drove for three blocks before I pulled over to the side of the road, tears slick on my cheeks and a heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Taking out my cell phone, I sent a two-line text to my son with shaking hands, letting him know I had seen him standing there behind the man with the spittle, holding the sign that said rather plainly, “Just Say No To Abortion.” And my heart ached for him, knowing the decision that Amy had made and the devastation it had wrought, the tremors felt throughout the entire family. I didn’t blame him for standing there in front of the building that had admitted her that day, that had caused so much pain. I wanted him to know that he had my support, but that I just couldn’t stand there too.

He had wanted to name the baby James, after his grandfather who he had barely known, a hard man with a harder work ethic and no time for his family, though he loved them dearly. And James it would have been if he had been able to convince her that the child was a child, that its heart was already beating, that he was deserving of a name. And I saw my son, my strong, solid firstborn reduced to a shadow of his former self when all of his arguments went for naught, when she made the appointment anyway. What was worse was that she didn’t deserve to be a mother, of that she was correct, but he was already a father, just waiting for his child. My heart grieves for him, and for little James who did exist in this world for too short a time.

I turned the key in the ignition and took to the open road again, on my way home.

Sam