Shedding the Shame and Growing in Grace

I finally let myself do the math. I counted up thirty weeks on the calendar from January 10

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and my finger landed on August 7

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. That would’ve been her due date, but I chose to have an abortion instead.

Twenty-five years ago my boyfriend (now my husband) and I found out I was pregnant. An occasion that should’ve been joyous fell on my heart like lead.

I was 19.

I was in college.

I was not married.

I was the girl that had reached her high school goal of delivering a commencement address at graduation. The girl who had walked across the stage and received one honor and scholarship after another. The girl who was the student representative on the Youth Council at church. The girl whose parents were leaders in the church. The girl who had spent weeks developing her high school government debate argument against abortion had one within days of finding out she was pregnant.

Pride. Pride in all that I had accomplished in high school. Pride in all the hopes that my family, friends, and community had for me. Pride in being the good girl.

Fear. Fear that someone might find out that I was “living in sin”—after all, I “knew better”. Fear that my family would be disappointed in me. Fear that the church community would hurl insults at me and my family behind our backs.

Heartbreak. My sister had just had two miscarriages and was heartbroken. How could her little sister be pregnant by accident? How would I face her?

All of those things put the gas in his car that drove us out of state so no one we knew would see us entering the clinic.

After enduring that excruciating morning, we both held each other in the parking lot and swore we’d never speak of that day again. And we didn’t. Not once.

I became a master of repression. I could force the anxious, guilty, shameful thoughts down by preventing them from ever becoming conscious. Not only could I push them from my mind, I formed a hard layer of stone around my heart. I refused to think and I refused to feel.

Feeling meant I had to deal with my choices and I refused to do that. Because I refused to feel, my conscience went dark. I began making choices that pushed me further into a pit. Destructive friendships and more compromises crept into my life. I hated myself, and my self-destructive behavior confirmed that.

I had known God my whole life. I knew he was there. I had asked him to forgive me for this a hundred times. I couldn’t bring myself to actually say what I wanted him to forgive me for, I just asked him to forgive me.

I knew that Jesus had paid the price for my sin, even abortion, but I wouldn’t allow myself to be forgiven. If I did, then—in my mind—it was like saying what I did was okay, and it wasn’t.

And if I accepted God’s forgiveness, then I would be forced to forgive myself. I didn’t believe I deserved forgiveness. I didn’t deserve love. I deserved hatred and self-loathing.

Life went on. We graduated from college. We secured good jobs. We got married. We had kids.

It wasn’t until almost ten years after choosing abortion and I looked into the eyes of our three children that I started feeling again.

I felt love, but I also felt guilt. I felt shame.

When I held them, I realized all that I had sacrificed. All in the name of pride and fear. The fear I felt ten years before compounded. It turned into anxiety and panic.

I didn’t deserve three healthy children; my mind convinced me that God was going to punish me by taking them away from me. I imagined every sickness and every disease and believed that they had it. I rushed them to the doctor for everything, no matter how small.

I became sick. The guilt and shame burdened my body. It laid on my mind like a mountain of bricks. Sleep wouldn’t come. My body ached. My heart was tormented. How could I sing “Jesus Loves Me” to my children when I didn’t believe that he loved ME?

I prayed for peace. I prayed for healing. But it seemed so far away.

I read a magazine article that moved me. It spoke about sharing our weaknesses. Sharing our sin. I knew that no amount of hiding it had brought me peace, so I decided to share it.

The next day I spoke with my husband about the abortion. We each opened up about how it had haunted us for 10 years.

How we regretted it with every fiber of our being.

How we wished a thousand times that we had given her life.

How we knew she was in heaven with Jesus.

And that Jesus still loved us.

And that Jesus had covered abortion on the cross just like every other sin. Even the sin that compounded with each destructive decision that came after our abortion.

Yes, Jesus had forgiven me, but now it was time to forgive myself.

I went straight to my parents. I can still—15 years later—remember where each of us sat as I poured out my heart. As we each poured out our tears.

Each of them poured out their forgiveness and love, because they are much like Jesus and they love me unconditionally.

And like a bucket full of rain, I felt the guilt and shame pour out of the deepest parts of my soul. Right there in their living room.

Right there at the feet of Jesus.

I had laid it down and picked it up for 10 years, but at that moment of confession, I laid it down for good.

Over the next few weeks, I dealt with the other destructive behaviors that had followed my abortion. No longer would they haunt me as well.

A trusted friend became my counselor and helped me dust myself off and believe that I was free. Free from the guilt. Free from the shame.

She covered me in prayer and she covered me in love. She answered the phone every time I called. She dropped what she was doing every time I needed to talk. She was present.

Sharing my story never came easy, but I eventually was able to become a counselor at our local crisis pregnancy center.

God gave me sweet redemption each time I shared my story with another girl facing an unplanned pregnancy. Tears of joy replaced tears of shame as each one embraced the baby within them and chose to give them life.

He had turned my trash into treasure.

My shame into sharing.

My guilt into guidance for others.

Sweet redemption.

I had no biological confirmation, but my heart had confirmed that our baby was a girl, and I had named her Ruth Ann.

Though I never saw her on that horrible day, January 10, 1991, I imagine that had I delivered her full-term she would’ve looked a lot like my other three children—blonde hair and blue eyes.

I knew her name. I imagined her face. I had healing.

But I needed more.

So, I finally let myself do the math.

August 7. The day she would’ve been born.

August 7, 2016. The day she would’ve turned 25.

That day didn’t bring tears. It brought me joy.

Because finally I was able to remember her life and not her death.

For 10 weeks she lived inside of me. And for 25 years she has lived in heaven.

My sweet Jesus, the lover of my soul, has held her hand. And though I’ve missed the opportunity to sing “Jesus Loves Me” to her. She has heard it from his sweet lips. Each grace-filled word.

Some people might say that I made the best decision for me at the time. NO! Aborting my baby was never the right decision. In no way did I ever feel relief or peace.

I have wished a thousand times over that I could undo that decision, but there are no do-overs in life.

I have wished a thousand times that I could’ve been as brave sharing that I was pregnant as I am now sharing that I had an abortion. Oh, if I could have just been brave enough.

Then I wouldn’t have feared what others would think of me.

Then I wouldn’t have been haunted with my choice, the guilt, or the shame. I wouldn’t have this deep hole I created in my heart with the decision I made .

No. It was never a “the best decision.”

But, I have finally let God have it. Jesus died for it. God redeemed it.

He will use it for good. Her life will matter.

So, as you read this, I don’t want you to exit this post and say, “Good for her. She got that off her chest. I’m glad she feels better.”

I want you to be changed.

Once we see and know the face of someone who has walked that path, then we can have compassion.

Maybe it’s the heroin addict.

Maybe it’s the prostitute.

Maybe it’s the drunk driver who killed someone.

Maybe it’s the post-abortive woman.

I want you to know that many girls/women have made this choice. Millions of women.

You know someone who has had an abortion. You just don’t know that you know her.

Many have been heartbroken over their decision. Many would give anything for a do-over. Many have beaten themselves up, believed that they deserved nothing good in their lives. Believed that they were beyond being redeemed.

Have compassion on her. Be a safe place for her to shed her shame.

Lift her out of the pit of condemnation, even though she threw herself in.

Breathe life into her, even though she extinguished it from her baby.

Be Jesus.

Offer her forgiveness. Offer her acceptance. Offer her love.

Doing so doesn’t mean you approve of her choice, it means you approve of her soul–the one Jesus died for.