by alisha - 15 years old
Earlier this year, I went to the sidewalk.
It was cold, the January chill wrapping itself around me like a blanket. I shook inside my thick, winter coat, but not just because of the cold.
It happens here, I thought, suddenly everything becoming more real than before.
It happens here, right across the street.
I imagined the chairs in the waiting room, the sterile rooms filled with surgical equipment. I imagined the fear the women must feel as they walked into the room. Every surgical procedure is scary; I know this well, so I think those precious women must have been scared.
I thought about how it could have been me. If things had been a little different – if there had been a test, if I hadn’t been born into the family I was, if things had been just a little different than they happened to be – that could have been my mother in there, scared, confused, thinking this was her only option, that she couldn’t raise a child who would require around the clock care, the medical bills piling up, that she couldn’t raise me.
I couldn’t find the words to say as I huddled there on the sidewalk. I kept whispering over and over, “Dear God.”
Dear God, what are we doing?
Dear God, that could have been me, but it’s not. Thank you for life.
Dear God, they are hurting.
Dear God, Dear God, Dear God.
I experienced something in those few minutes on the sidewalk that I will remember forever. I realized how real abortion is, that it happened right over there. I realized how precious life is, and how thankful I am for my own.
I prayed for everything that happens inside of those walls, for lives that are forever changed. I prayed they would all know how much they are loved, and how precious life is.
I’m so thankful for mine. In those few minutes, I decided that I wanted to make my life count for something. I didn’t want to be silent.
How can we be silent?