For the Woman on Mother's Day Who Had an Abortion

You are not alone in your confusion, silence, or numb avoidance. Hiding behind a smile on Sunday morning, when you stand up, or when the gravity of reality forces you to keep your precious body in the chair- a body you possibly hate and grieve; a body you’re proud of and take to marches; a body you don’t understand and feel divorced from.

You were never alone — in the waiting room, as the medicine entered your bloodstream, behind the closed door — quietly confident or quietly questioning.
Getting into the car, cramping and nauseated, riding past the protestors with their grotesque signs, cloaked in the name of Jesus and life. But that’s not the abundant life Jesus talked about.
Because Jesus wasn’t outside picketing. He was inside the clinic holding you, empathizing with you — and never left.

I’m so sorry about the vitriol being splashed across the news and social media this week. I’m so sorry about what’s left in the wake of Mother’s Day- splashes of trauma, grief, and salty tears.
I wish I could hug you, but instead trust that God, who is both our Father and Mother, is cradling you, while reminding you that neither politics, nor decisions, nor emergencies define your lovability.
Your radiance isn’t dimmed, your wholeness isn’t fractured, because you, in God’s presence — in God’s arms — are pure and whole.

You won’t be alone, on Sunday, if you choose to stand up in freedom. Or if you choose to stay seated, knowing you’re held. Or even if you stay home, resting in the security of your lovability — there’s no need to prove or perform. You’re not alone. Afterall, after all, you have the abundant life Jesus talked about. You can rest in this steady love, so profound. Love personified understands. Love personified isn’t judging. There isn’t a poster in these nail-scarred hands. Because posters get in the way of hands holding, arms carrying, touches healing, and there’s nothing that can separate you from Him 🌼