One of the sweet, gentle young'uns stopped a car down the road from the abortion center. She spoke to them briefly. I walked over as they drove on slowly to the center.
"They don't speak English," she told me.
The other sweet, gentle young'un stopped them again in the driveway of the center. Since I knew I had a Spanish booklet in my pack, I hurried over. They were not Spanish speaking either. Now what?
I pulled out my plastic fetal baby model and pantomimed loving the baby. I pointed to heaven, indicating God made and loved the baby. I rocked the baby in my arms, then clutched it against my heart. Then I pointed to the clinic, and pretended to stab the baby and then throw it away. I held the baby against my stomach, and then pretended to rip it out. The woman laughed. In broken English, the man told me they already had five babies. The sweet, gentle young'un managed to understand that the mother did indeed wish to abort.
I continued pantomiming, hugging the little baby model and trying to plead without words. I showed them our booklet of pictures of babies in the womb, pointing out my name and phone number written on the front page. There is only so much you can communicate without language. Go ahead and laugh, but I had very little to work with here!
"What language do you speak?" I asked finally, sweat pouring off my face. They did understand that.
"Nepal."
I could not believe it! Because of a young woman I counsel who chose life a couple of months ago and was from Nepal, I had procured a Nepalese New Testament, and Nepalese pamphlets about God and following Him. They were in my car, parked down the street. I tried to pantomime to the couple to wait, but they smiled, took my booklet, and drove into the center parking lot anyway. I raced to my car for the Nepalese pamphlets, but the couple was already inside the abortion center when I returned.
Bummer.
I gave the sweet, gentle young'uns copies of the Nepalese tracts in case such a situation should arise again. Shortly thereafter, I intercepted a young woman walking down the street en route to the abortion mill. She agreed to talk to me. We exchanged names, and I asked her what her circumstances were that made her think abortion was a choice she wanted to make. To my delight, she was willing to let me offer another option, and listened to me for half an hour. Good! No language problem here! She believed in God, and admitted that she knew abortion was wrong. She had a boyfriend and family willing to support the baby who were all opposed to abortion. I outlined all the community resources that could help her, and for every concern she raised, offered assistance. I read her verses from my Bible, supporting the decision to obey Him, and honor human life. I discussed the option of adoption. (She would not consider adoption, telling me she would rather kill the baby than let someone else have her.) We discussed the truth that the baby was human, innocent, and vulnerable. I warned her of all the infractions and suspension of licenses of the abortion center and the doctors. I gave her all that I knew to give, trying to persuade her to consider life for her child.
Finally, she told me she would go in the mill and discuss her options. I begged her to understand she knew her options. I'd presented them. There was only one option inside that abortion center. She took our information, but sadly, all my pleading appeared to have been in vain.
It threatened to be a depressing day. With no words, I'd been unable to convince the Nepal couple to turn around, and with a flood of words, I'd been unable to convince the American woman to turn around.
Over the next hour, our wonderful group of counselors had great interactions with the abortion minded women. All of us spoke from the sidewalk, and on the microphone, urging them to choose life. Three women left, choosing not to abort their babies. We were ecstatic. And then, the abortionist arrived. Hope always diminishes at that point, though we all know God can work miracles at the last moment, and often does. Women who had taken the abortion pill streamed out, most ignoring our offers of pamphlets that could help ease post-abortive grief and might bring healing. Then the Nepalese couple emerged. At least I could offer them the Nepalese New Testament, and pamphlet I had retrieved from my car. I may not have been able to help them choose to save their child, but perhaps they would turn their lives over to God. We don't always know to what purpose God has brought us in our obedience to His call.
They rolled down their window, stopping the car where we stood at the end of the driveway. The woman smiled.
"Did you keep your baby?" asked my counselor friend.
They nodded. I could not believe it! Did they understand? I pantomimed rocking baby in arms, and then holding it to my heart. She nodded again.
"Yes," said the man, "We kept baby." They both seemed relieved. They had chosen life! I gave them the Nepalese New Testament, and the man looked surprised. I imagine he was wondering about the power of the God who supplied this miraculous gift of a Nepal Bible in this most unlikely of places. The beaming sweet, gentle young'uns handed the mama a bag of baby gifts we try to give every mother that chooses life.
"Thank you," said the woman. She knew that word, a good word, and one that was singing in my heart as well.
What are the chances that a couple from Nepal would come to the abortion center and that I would have a New Testament in Nepalese in my car? What are the chances that a few minutes of two sweet young faces smiling encouragement, and then me mutely pantomiming loving a little plastic baby model might spark a change in heart when my half hour of carefully reasoned words to the other mother seemed not to have made a difference? God was showing me (again) that His power can overcome any barrier. Our job is just to show up. Our personal weakness or strength matters not at all.
By the time we had left, the woman I'd spoken with at length was still inside the center. God can work miracles, and often does. God speaks in a language the heart of any person can understand if they are willing to listen. I reminded myself of that as I drove home.
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Awesome Word, Vicky.
ReplyDeletethank you Consuelo. It was an awesome experience.
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