September 30, 2009


Let me say right off the bat, I am a male. I have never experienced PMS, nor do I have any desire to. I will never really understand what women have gone through in their fight for equal rights, but I do understand, and respect, all individual human’s rights, triumphs, and beliefs –no matter who, or what, that person may be. Let me also say right off the bat that I am alive. The Lord has given me the breath of life, and that enables me to have any understanding and opinion at all. Living has given me the experience to be able to have the chance to triumph over my own boundaries in the world, and the freedom to develop my own beliefs. Quite frankly, what I respect and value more than anyone’s personal desires and, unfortunately, their personal tragedies, is the right to life. The gift of life.

I.     In a comfortable little apartment, in a comfortable little neighborhood, there lived a woman in her mid-thirties. Though she never had experienced true love, she was very content with her life. She had the convenience of her career and a group of shops right close to home, and she was very friendly with her neighbors; they took care of each other. She did not like to go out much at this stage in her life, but there was no real reason to. In the evenings she would read a book or watch television with a cup of tea; sometimes she would just lay about and dream. The woman truly loved life.

Down the street from the woman, a baby girl about three months in growth lived comfortably inside the womb of her mother. Though she never had experienced real life, and though she did not really understand it, she was very content with the protection she felt being surrounded by her mother. She had the convenience of sharing breath and nourishment with her mother, and she felt genuine love for her provider. The baby would spend her time kicking and playing, or sometimes she would just listen to the nervous chatter of her mother, memorizing the tone and rhythms of her voice. The baby truly loved life.

II.     One night, around midnight, the woman in her thirties was awakened from peaceful dreams by a man at the foot of her bed. As she sat up to scream, the man raised his left arm over his right shoulder and swiftly let it slice through the air to make contact with her temple. A sharp pain bled all the colors together –and she went black.

When she came to, the woman felt another’s flesh against her own. She tried to move but found her limbs were tied to the four bedposts. Upon opening her eyes, she quickly realized her situation and screamed. She screamed for her mother; she screamed for God, but with the thick strong tape across her mouth, all she could manage were low, quiet, muffled screeches. She was trapped. He was already inside her, and there was nothing she could do. Her mind turned from fear to rage; she tried to wiggle her way out, but she was pulled tight. She was helpless. When the man climaxed, she felt her soul connect with one that was cold and deathlike. Life became reduced to its most primitive stage: kill or be killed. Her mind became ultimate terror, and she again slipped into unconsciousness.

The next day, about the same time Sarah Johnson was filing a report of rape at the police station, the baby’s mother rushed to her appointment at the abortion clinic. She went straight to the receptionist.

          “I have an appointment at noon.”

          “Jaclyn Baker?”


          “Have a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly.”

The baby was awakened from a quiet slumber as her world moved a little off balance. Her mother tried to get as comfortable as possible with her legs up in the stirrups.

“This isn’t so bad,” she thought just before the anesthetic gained control of her mind. The doctor placed cone shaped rods in her cervix and stretched the muscle until the opening was large enough to work in. The doctor then put the tube of what is really just a powerful vacuum cleaner inside the mother and flipped the switch “on.”

For the first time, the baby experienced fear. Her whole world was being ripped apart. With the instinct to survive the baby fought back; she kicked, and she screamed. She screamed for her mother; she screamed for God, but the life was being sucked out of her. She was trapped. The vacuum already had a hold of her, and there was nothing she could do. She desperately tried to hold on, but she had no strength. She was helpless. When the vacuum finally ripped her from the wall of her mother’s womb, her mind became ultimate terror. Her soul was ripped apart from her mother’s. She traveled down the vacuum tube, quietly dead.

III.     Three years later Jaclyn Baker got a call in her office from Sarah Johnson. Sarah wanted to know if Jaclyn could pick up her son from daycare. She needed to work late that night, and she said she would appreciate the favor, because Jaclyn was the only one that Sarah trusted with her son.

They had met three months after Jaclyn’s abortion in the waiting room of a female psychiatrist who specialized in women’s issues. Sarah leaned over and told her how wonderful this doctor was; she said that her healing progress was coming along quite good. As she began to show, Sarah eventually told Jaclyn about the rape and when she found out she was pregnant. She said she wasn’t sure if she’d be keeping the baby or not –she had at least six months to decide on that –but she couldn’t imagine strangers raising a child that was hers, even if he wouldn’t have a father. The man was never caught. That first meeting, Jaclyn only said that she was there for personal problems. As they talked more about their careers and the weather and what not, they discovered how close to each other they lived. Eventually, they became best friends.

Sarah knocked on Jaclyn’s door a little after eight.

          “How was he?”

          “Just fine, as always. Just fine.”

They chatted a little more about his growing personality, and then Sarah Johnson whisked her son home to bed.

Jaclyn Baker cried herself to sleep that night, like she did many nights. She wondered who her baby might be. She wondered what her baby might have become. She missed her child very much.


For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; marvelous are Your works, and that my soul knows very well. My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed. And in Your book they all were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them.
Psalm 139: 13-16 (NKJ)



Peter L Richardson
May, 1992



One Response to “Rights.”

  1. peterrock12 Says:

    For a very insightful article on this subject check out “Hidden Pain” by Matt Anderson in the Sept. 26, 2009 issue of World Magazine: http://www.worldmag.com. Also, check out Matt’s blog: http://mdviews.wordpress.com.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: