My dear little Ferne Rose,
I’m holding you in my arms while I write this, kissing your soft little head, feeling your chest rise and fall, your heart beating so close to mine.
Just 8 weeks ago you were still within me, dependent on me for your very survival, my precious baby girl, a part of me and yet distinct from me.
8 weeks ago, it would have been legal for me to murder you, have you ripped out from my womb limb by limb, killed in one of the most painful ways imaginable.
Oh, baby girl, how it hurts me to know how many millions of babies have had their lives ended just like that. Murdered by their own mothers, with so many accomplices participating even if only by their lack of participation – fathers, grandfathers, grandmothers, aunts, uncles, doctors (if a baby murderer by profession can claim such a title), nurses, office workers, etc.
Babies just like you. Little lives snuffed out, just like that.
Roe vs. Wade was overturned today. I’m grateful, so grateful.
Baby girl, do you know what that means? A lot of babies just like you are going to get to live. And a lot of mommies just like me aren’t going to be baby murderers after all.
Of course, the work isn’t over yet. You get to grow up in a different sort of landscape, where the fight for the right to murder babies is done closer to home, state by state right now, and in the online arena where baby-killing pills are readily available.
Your mommy prays that you’ll be brave and fight for those babies when you get older. I pray that you’ll call abortion what it really is. I pray that you’ll take the unpopular stand of helping abolish abortion, make it illegal and unthinkable. I pray that you’ll love radically enough to say the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I pray that you’ll joyfully pay whatever the cost is to help those babies, and their mommies too – from the practical needs to the more difficult ones. But don’t forget the starting point – to be a good mommy, she has to at least not kill her baby. That’s not asking for much, or is it?
Oh, baby girl. I remember the day you were born, not so long ago. You were late, 6 days late, to be precise. I’d gone for a long bumpy walk the day before, went to bed hoping that maybe this would be the night. Got up from bed to a gush of fluid – my water broke and you really were coming! I remember the joy of realizing that I would soon be holding you in my arms.
The labor wasn’t long. Sure, it hurt, but with each contraction I knew you were closer. I breathed through them and tried to envision your little face. I marveled at the awareness that prayers were even then being answered, seeing how fast I was progressing and how well you were positioned, two things that definitely hadn’t happened with your big brother’s birth.
And then it was time to push. The birth tub was barely ready, but I got in. I pushed with all my might, willing you into the world with everything I had. 2 or 3 pushes and they told me to feel your head.
I’ll never forget that moment. Reaching down, touching your little head, so perfectly round and bobby, as the rest of your body was still inside. Held for a moment between two worlds. A holy and beautiful moment. Birthing my baby into this world.
It was time. I took your daddy’s hand again and pushed one last time, and then you were here. The midwife caught you and handed you to me.
My favorite part of pregnancy and birth. Meeting my baby for the very first time. And thanks be to God, not completely exhausted like I was with your brother. I cuddled you and you cried and you were perfect.
9 long months, God had been knitting you together in secret. It felt like an eternity to your mommy – pregnancy isn’t easy. But from the very moment of your conception, God had planned all of your days. Your life was no accident. No life ever is.
I remember when I found out you were coming. Your big brother was just 6 months old. Your daddy and I had started a new business less than a year before. I didn’t know how I would feed your brother, if I couldn’t keep nursing him because you were coming. I didn’t know how I would keep up with all the tasks on my plate, if I was going to have to do it all while sick and exhausted. I knew when I told people I was pregnant while holding your brother, him still so little, that I was probably going to get some unwelcome questions and comments.
But what did all that matter? You were coming. My precious baby girl. You weren’t a mistake. You were already a little life growing inside of me. You were planned by God.
Of course God provided. Your brother ate just fine, even if it was through means other than nursing till a year like I’d hoped. He’s still a happy, healthy boy. And he gets to have his very own best friend in you. The business thrived and grew, I had enough energy for what I needed to do, and what I couldn’t do? Well, it wasn’t all that necessary after all – God made up for it.
I know the kind of circumstances mommies face when they consider killing their babies. I spent years hearing them, counseling them, witnessing their babies on the ultrasound screen. Their babies are all planned by God, too. And God provides for them – often through His people.
My precious Ferne Rose, I’m honored to be your mommy. I’m undeserving of the gift God bestowed upon me when He gave you to me. All of us mommies are. It’s a privilege God gives us, having Him weave a little life inside of us. I pray that God will use your life to show mommies how precious their babies are, and that they’ll let their babies live.
I love you, my sweet baby. I’m so, so grateful for you. I’m glad you got to live.