I was twenty years old, probably about a month from my twenty-first birthday. I had been dating a young man since I was nineteen. After just a few months of dating, we had become pregnant. I’d had no idea what to do. He had promised that he loved me, and we’d vowed to stick it out. We lost the baby at thirteen weeks. After that, our relationship deteriorated, as you can imagine. Young “love” -confused, naive, and just plain dumb.
We continued dating off and on for another rocky year. One year after our miscarriage, we found out we were pregnant again. It was different this time. We didn’t want to be together, and I knew I couldn’t handle a baby on my own. I knew my family wouldn’t understand (rather, I was convinced they wouldn’t understand). So my boyfriend and I came to the decision that we would do what was best -we would terminate the pregnancy.
I only wish I’d stood on the solid rock of my Savior then as I do now. I wish I would not have been so scared.
During the procedure, I experienced intense pressure and pain. I had received some kind of pain medicine that made my pain and memory just blurry enough. I remember crying out the entire time. The doctor and nurses kept asking me if I was OK. Did I want to proceed? And I did - I didn’t really, but that’s what we agreed. I wasn’t strong enough to stand on my own two feet.
Then it was over. I was no longer “with child.”
I went to the post-operating area with a bunch of other women. I seemed to be the only one crying. What had I done?! I had no idea that I would feel such an overwhelming guilt for the rest of my life.
On the way home, I remember, all I wanted was a hug, someone to hold me and tell me it was OK. For my boyfriend, however, the job was done; we got to move on with our lives. We dabbled in and out of our relationship for another year or so -but it was all over.
For the next eleven years (I was twenty then, I’m thirty-two now) there was literally not one day that went by that I did not think about it. Every OBGYN visit, where I had to tell how many pregnancies I’d had - what they must have thought when I said one miscarriage, one abortion. In that order. Two pregnancies, no children. One aborted. Every time, I thought about how old both of my babies would have been -the one the Lord took, and the one I gave to Him. Regret, guilt, shamefulness shook me to the core for all those years.
Not many people know, even to this day. God knows. I know. The father of the baby knows. Maybe four other people in my life know. But certainly it’s not something I ever wanted to talk about -until now.
In January 2012, I stepped foot into our current church, and with open arms God welcomed me. I felt the Holy Spirit in my heart and soul and received His grace and His mercy. After a decade of dark pain and guilt and scars that a smiling face hid, I’ve FINALLY let go of the chains that held me down. This is a pain that can be healed only by the Almighty Healer.
The Lord loves me enough to have blessed me with two children to hold in this lifetime. They are now six and three, and not a day passes that I don’t thank God for His blessings. I look forward to meeting my other two children one day. For now, they’re in the best hands possible - His hands.