by Mary Therese Weyrich

Each week I go to the local abortion facility and spend hours outside in prayer. Seasons come and seasons go. Still that place is open.

Why? Why do I go there? It is because I must, I am a mother and I have the heart of a mother. I know what it is like to have a difficult pregnancy, to have everything far from perfect. I have been through labor (aptly named) and delivery. I've held that new little baby, looked in his eyes and said "Hello little one. Who are you? Let's get to know each other. I am your mother and you are my baby. I love you."

That is why. Each baby is as precious as my own.

So I go there and pray and offer help. Never yell or shout, that doesn't make any sense to me. Quiet prayer. "Please," I plead. "Dear Lord, that this one would stop. No more killing. Please touch the hearts of the hearts of the workers, of the doctors. Please, Lord, that they would find some other work. That they would not want this bad thing anymore."

Innocent blood is shed at the abortion mill. It makes me cry to see the medical waste truck. They take the babies out in trash cans.

Trash cans.

I see the girls go in scared and come out hurt and crying. I see men waiting around outside, time crawling, their eyes ashamed. I see the staff act as though everything is OK.

It is not.