|A Field of Tears|
|Who Weeps for the Victims of Abortion?|
Daniel A. Fix
|GUEST COLUMNIST, Nebraska|
This morning was different.
When I arrived it was cool and pitch dark outside, save for one lone street light. I began my watch in silence and prayer as I walked along the sidewalk outside the clinic gates. On the inside, a man was performing quite different tasks. He had grey hair and he wore a vest that read “Planned Parenthood Escort”. He was about 70 years old. We didn’t acknowledge one another, although both were aware of the other’s presence.
I went about my business of prayer and he went about his of preparing the clinic for another day of “business”. Mine, I pray, was a labor born of love; his, whether he knew it or not, was a labor born out of diabolical distortion of the notion of freedom.
In the grass just outside the clinic gate I could see countless drops of dew reflecting the light cast by a lone street lamp in the predawn darkness. They resembled tears. But whose? Perhaps those who had been, and would be, forever denied the sight of their own mothers’ faces or robbed of the hope of seeing God’s. Maybe they were intermixed with the tears of Angels who would this day lose their little charges to the clinic’s deadly “business”.
Another “escort” appeared—a grandmotherly figure, who busied herself marking the clinic entrance with signs giving words of welcome in three languages. They hung a large tarp above a fence so that their “clients” might not see the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe on the roof next door.
They had to make certain everything was in order, for this was not just another day of doling out contraceptives and “educational” material. No, today the doctor was coming and the real work would be done. Mothers would pass through the clinic gates with new life in their wombs only to exit them with wombs violated and life snuffed out. There would be “procedures” carried out by skillful hands today. Never mind that hearts would be broken, lives would end, and souls would be imperiled.
Again, those glistening tears in the grass—to whom did they belong? Maybe to all those mothers, fathers and grandparents who’d left behind the slaughtered remains of their own flesh and blood, realizing too late they’d been deceived by the Father of Lies. There in the darkness I could only imagine.
Soon, others arrived in support of the cause of life. Banners and signs were erected and more Rosaries prayed. There were familiar exchanges and greetings between veteran adversaries in this battle that's been going on for so many years.
As we waited and prayed, one gentleman committed the “offense” of resting his sign against a tree for a moment as he rubbed his hands together for warmth against the cold. An observant official marched the entire distance of the clinic grounds to give him a stern warning. It was the clinic’s tree and thus a violation of the clinic’s property rights! The “offender” said nothing, just picked up his sign and continued to pray.
It seemed that all of the escorts and workers for the clinic were advanced in years. It was sad to think that these souls, so obviously nearing their own particular judgments, would evidently remain determined to continue in the trade of death right up to the end.
Again the tears in the grass outside the gate—whose were they? Perhaps those of Angels Guardian, whose aged charges went about the clinic’s work in ignorance or defiance of the coming judgment of their God.
The sky was growing light and the preparations nearly complete. The real business was about to start. A car approached the clinic gate. On each side of the gate stood a female escort, holding a sign of welcome in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. A few pro-life folks tried to talk to the new arrivals, to plead the cause of life. Attempts were made to provide literature, but the workers were determined to see those frustrated. They shouted at the driver, ordering him to drive forward into the parking lot. In raised voices, they instructed their hesitant clients not to stop and not to open the windows. The driver complied and sped through the gates. But the battle was not quite over.
A young man on our side of the fence spoke to the young lady as she emerged from the car wearing a backpack and an uncertain look. In those last precious moments of her baby’s life, he pleaded with the young mother that it was not too late and that the baby could still be saved. But the clinic workers drowned out the young man’s voice using what sounded like gas-powered leaf blowers.
The young woman was whisked away by escorts behind the clinic door. Her “brave” driver made his getaway speedily back through the gates. Other "clients" were waiting.
That was it! It was over so quickly! In sadness, I again thought of those teardrops in the grass. Maybe this time the Creator of us all had joined His tears to that field of them outside the abortion clinic gate.
The sun lifted high into the morning sky but my heart sank at the realization of imminent defeat. Inside, a baby would die in a few moments. More Rosaries were prayed.
The escorts seemed unaffected by any of it, and happily chatted and laughed away. One even mildly mocked the young man whose pleas had been blown away. Their shoptalk was interrupted by the arrival of yet another car at the gate. The escorts sprang into action. This time there was little delay as the vehicle’s driver passed through the gates without slowing down.
Again, the through-the-fence pleas of the young man were squelched by leaf blowers. The woman was rushed inside. This is a job better done without deliberation or reflection. I was stunned by the mechanical efficiency of it all.
I thought of my own little girl still asleep at home in her bed, surrounded by warm blankets or perhaps her mother’s embrace. In a few moments, she’d wake up in peace, warmth, and security. But here at the gates of this place, a real life nightmare was unfolding before my eyes as at least two little ones still in the embrace of their mothers’ wombs were having awakenings of another sort. There would be no peace, no warmth, and no security for them this morning—just the sensations of things too horrible to ponder. And yet no one would be there to hold the little hands, hear the silent screams, or wipe away the tears.
I looked down at the field of tears in the grass before me just then. Earlier, I had wondered whose they might be. Now I knew for certain that at least some of them belonged to me.
God help us, what have we done!