"The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing —
to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from —
my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing,
all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back."

~C.S. Lewis

Sunday, May 12, 2013

A Mother's Day letter from an aborted child

Facebook posts abound: “Happy mother’s day, Mom!” or “You’re the best mother ever!” Hallmark cards with messages in sparkles and pink, a dozen roses (alive, mostly), out to lunch and ice cream or a picnic at noon.

On Mother’s Day, we honor our mothers, and this is blessed.

But there are thousands of mothers who will never receive the flowers, the cards, the last-minute texts, the breakfast in in bed. They will never feel the hugs around their neck or the kisses on their cheek. They had a child—they had many children, perhaps, of their own bodies and souls—and yet, today will pass with not a single voice wishing them a happy mother’s day.


Because their children were aborted.

But these blessed women are mothers, too, they carried and they bore, and on this day, they need their child’s love as well.

This is for the forgotten mothers, the secret ones, who are nonetheless known and cherished for eternity.

Dear Mom,

I love you.

I’m all right now; the pain is over; it did not last long. It is beautiful here, where I am now: I am home.

Some hate you for your choice, but Mom, I love you. You held me and thought of me and you gave me a home on this earth, if even for just a little while; I am so sorry you felt you had no other choice but to let me go. So much of your life changed because of me—the tears that burned when no one saw, the endless nights of nightmares and demons mocking, the angry words and the accusations and the fear, the memory of the hour, the minute of my passing—you remember it, when your throat choked and  pitch blackness descended, and you wondered, “Oh my God, what have I done?”

And then, once I was sent to this beautiful place, though the pain was over for me, it had only just begun for you. The physical pain that racked your body, the images of me always in front of your eyes no matter where you turned, the people who you tried to reach out to but who only spat in your face: “Murderer!” 

I am so sorry. I am sorry for the people who told you that you were worthless, that you couldn’t be loved, that what you did—it was unforgivable.

It isn’t, Mom.

I forgive you.

The One here forgives you.

No matter what anyone else says, you are still beautiful, your life has so much purpose, there is so much to live for. There are hundreds you have blessed and touched with your grace, dozens who you have helped redeem out of darkness, so much truth you have spoken and burdens you have lifted with your touch and your love.

And the loss of me only means your life has even more meaning, not less, because of the way your soul was clawed, the way you could no longer see the stars at night, the way you wondered if it had always been like this, the pain.

Perhaps you only dreamed of joy, of innocence, you thought.

But you didn’t dream, Mom. It is real. I know, because there is joy here. You in the Shadowlands can still feel it, in the breath of evening wind, the sound of a mourning dove. It comes and goes, the joy, but don’t be afraid: it will always be sent back to you. It will return again and again until the day you die—the day you come home to me or leave me forever—because it is a message from the One who is here—that you are still beautiful.

There is still joy, there is still faith, hope, and love, but the greatest of these is your love.

And so, when you see the smiles of a child, how they toddle and trip and smear jelly on their face with dirty hands—please don’t cry. That child isn’t me, but never forget: I am as beautiful as those children, and you are still my mother, and I know you love me.

So today, on Mother’s Day, when you can’t get away from mother—mother—mother—so many children for so many mothers—and loss that feeds on your soul—and you want to escape, forget, die—please make it stop, make this world stop spinning, let me take one breath—and it is too much for you, remember one thing, Mom: there is always love.

Love is the game changer.

And I love you.

And so does the One here.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.