I was spending some time looking through facebook and I came across the following post through a friend. It discusses abortion and how there is one clause that seems to bring to light a certain aspect that both the pro-choice and pro-life people have in common (usually. . . not all pro-life people believe the following) Regardless, it is a good read and it opens your eyes to some things you may not have thought of before.
Enjoy.
Staring out our kitchen window, I silently watched as the sun dropped behind the houses that lined the street. Before the sun continued its journey, making way for the moon, the window quickly glazed with fog, obstructing my view. Curious as to the source of the fog, I turned to see my grandmother diligently washing the dishes as the steam rose in the air. This villainous vapor not only plagued my view, but it also danced on her forehead causing her silver locks to cling there as well. I turned back to the window, wiping away the fog with my bare hand, and catching the sun just as it made its final pass beyond the urban horizon.
It wasn’t long before I felt inquisitive eyes on me. I turned, this time to face the gaze of my aging grandmother. The look she gave was contemplative and reluctant, as if she were dying to tell me something, but couldn’t.
“What?” I asked confused and interested.
“Nothing,” she answered turning back to her previous engagement. This time, I watched her and noticed that she cleaned the same plate four times. Her silence did not last long. Soon she was calling my mother to join us.
“What is it?” asked my mother, wasting no time to enter the kitchen, and ready to administer any punishment necessary. With confusion in her deep blue eyes, she looked from her daughter to her mother.
“You have to tell her, tonight,” demanded my grandmother, in a gentle and authoritative manner. My mother’s countenance changed instantly from curious, to reluctant. I was now worried, and a dozen questions swarmed through my mind. Did I do something wrong? Was somebody sick? What’s going on? I wanted answers, and I wanted them now. After a few moments of silence, my mother was snapped from her mental prison.
“I know,” she said in a near whisper, “will you keep an eye on the others?”
“Of course,” comforted my grandmother.
“Samantha,” something must be up, she just called me by my full first name, “get your coat; I need you to go to the store with me.” Without hesitation I grabbed my coat, and joined my mother in our blue faded minivan. She drove in silence, but I could tell her thoughts were imprisoning her. I wanted desperately to ask what was going on, but I knew my mother well enough to know when to keep my mouth shut. We pulled into the nearly vacant parking lot of our most visited department store, before a single word was uttered between either of us. The tension was high at this point, at any minute I could explode.
“Do you think you’re mature,” she asked hesitantly. The question caught me off guard confusing me. Was I mature? Just weeks ago I turned twelve, of course I was mature.
“More mature than most,” I answered, not willing to let my arrogance show. There was a long pause.
“Mature enough to know that you were born out of rape?” I choked. Minutes passed before my throat was free and my mind was clear enough to produce a reply. It was a life-shattering question.
“Was I?” I finally asked.
“Yes,” she answered and then began to tell me the story of the worst and best night of her life. I sat there in the passenger seat, clutching the safety belt as she continued. She said no matter what, I was her baby.
“I knew from the first moment you moved inside me, that you were mine, not his.” At this point we were both crying and her tale continued for what seemed liked hours. She told me about the many people, including close relatives who wanted her to get an abortion. This included relatives who claimed to be “right to life activists.”
The memory of this night was stimulated by a recent debate I had overheard about abortion. The topic is sensitive to many, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t to me. Through this debate I realized that I’m not angered by the debate itself.
For years I have heard and partook in this seemingly never-ending debate. One major flaw, in my opinion, is the one point that both sides share. Many of the “Pro-Life” say that the only exception of abortion is in cases of rape or incest, and the “Pro-Choice” say that abortion is acceptable especially in cases of rape or incest. Personally I find this to be a direct insult to my entire existence. All life is special and important, except mine.
My entire life people have considered me to be disposable. From the moment of my conception people have wanted me dead, and have used me as an escape clause. What sin had I committed that even the religious fanatics would have understood if I were terminated? I was conceived through rape; a conception that I had no choice in.
Because of these “exceptions” I felt like I was worthless, not wanted by most. My own grandfather had been one of those willing to pay for my termination, right next to my uncle and aunt. If my family wanted me gone, why wouldn’t these complete strangers see me as dispensable? For years I thought my grievance was with those claiming to be “for life,” or those “right to choose,” condoning abortion. Upon much observation I realized that yes I was angered by them (and hurt) but my grievance was also with myself. I accepted that I was expendable. I developed a depression in response to this acceptance of my unimportance.
With much consoling, mostly by God, I’ve realized that my life is special. Although I was conceived through pain and humiliation, my mother chose to keep me and give me a chance when not many others would. Now I’m a successful young student, ready and eager to change the world. No conflicting claims can hinder me; I’m called to greatness by the creator himself. Now I know that I’m actually, indispensable.
Samantha Vaughn (Flint, Mi).
I think this is a great inspirational story! I'd love to hear what everyone else thinks.
God Bless.
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