1.18.2009

The Abortion War: On the Frontlines

(Editor's Note: We provide this piece of political fiction to mark the 36th anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision this week.)

by
Kit-Bacon Gressitt

As she has done every anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision since her epiphany, since her wrenching acknowledgement of the sin upon innocent preborn souls, Mary prepares to go forth and spread the word of God’s forgiveness; to preach the sanctity of life; to witness unto those women weak of heart, frightened, confused; to stop them before the clinic doors and save them and their precious preborns from the wretched contemplation of unholy murder.


Mary pulls her long, brown hair into a tidy ponytail and dresses in practical layers to accommodate the variable temperatures of a daylong vigil. She straps on her pro-life fanny pack, loaded with blessed tracts and embryo dolls. Forsaking all adornment but her cross, she practices her look of fearsome love before the bedroom mirror. Confident and ready for battle, she clutches the bigger-than-life-size poster of aborted fetus parts in one hand, her Bible in the other, and marches to the local abortion mill, where the profit motive thrives under Satan’s leering eyes and abortions are encouraged, to provide lucrative embryos for ungodly research.

Mary takes her post, armed with the righteous assurance that she is doing God’s will. She waits for the poor misguided mothers to arrive, bearing their preborn to slaughter. And come they do, in numbers that torment Mary’s heart with the horrid image of God’s beloved preborns torn asunder by evil and torturous tools in the hands of Death’s doctors.

But stalwart she stands, sure in her knowledge of God’s intent: that virtuous blood not be shed; that she salvage one desperate soul and, with it, another precious innocent dangling at the great abyss of immoral destruction.

“Wait!” she calls and reaches for the nearest sinner, a young woman in immodest jeans from which the girl will soon burst forth in the full flower of maternal fertility, can Mary save her.

“Don’t do this,” Mary says. “There are other choices before you; this is not the only way.”

“Huh?” the girl asks, disinclined to remove her iPod earphones for a stranger.

“Do not renounce God’s marvelous gift growing within you,” Mary says. “Already she feels. Already she knows life. Already she loves you. And we love you. We can help you.”

“Excuse me,” the girl says, “what did you say?”

“I know you’re scared, but don’t succumb to the fear of your situation, to the temptation of a seemingly easy solution. In truth, it is not easy. There are better ways. There is help for you. God has sent you his love and support, and I’m here to give them to you. Let us help you and your preborn child. You have other choices.”

“Say what?” The girl reluctantly unplugs herself from her music.

“Choose life,” Mary implores her, putting down her poster and Bible and pulling tiny plastic embryos from her fanny pack. “Look, choose life for the blameless preborn baby God has given you, and you will receive his endless blessings. Choose life for your baby and heavenly eternity for yourself.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the girl says, stepping around Mary.

“Oh please!” Mary pleads, grabbing the girl’s hand and dropping to her knees, struggling to remember good sidewalk counseling technique. “Please consider your options. There are others who would love to have your baby. God’s innocent fruit grows in the garden of your womb. Please!”

“Let go!” The girl leans away from Mary’s passionate grasp.

“No, please stop!” Mary cries. “Don’t do this. We will help you through your pregnancy. I know what you’re going through. I’ve been there. I thought I was alone, and I made the wrong choice, and I’ve suffered for my sin. But you are not alone, really. We will help you!”

“I said let go, you weirdo! And mind your own business!” The girl pulls harder.

“Wait, please! Before God formed the sinless one in your womb, he knew her. His hands shaped and made her. Would you now turn from him and destroy her?” Mary weeps, wrapping her arms around the girl’s legs. “Don’t do this! Don’t kill her! Don’t murder your baby! Please! Please!”

“Lady,” says the girl, pushing Mary sharply away with her foot. “Cool your shit. I’m just here for a pap smear.”

“Oh. ... Oh, never mind.” Mary struggles up from the ground, brushes dirt and leaves from the seat of her pants, and goes in search of the next baby killer.

(Editor's Note: This piece is cross-posted from Kit-Bacon Gressitt's personal blog, Excuse Me, I'm Writing.)

(The photo of an abortion rights demonstration in San Francisco in 2008 is by Steve Rhodes of San Francisco, CA via Flickr, using a Creative Commons license.)






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