The Walls Are Talking by Abby Johnson

Author:Abby Johnson [Johnson, Abby]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Spiritual & Religion
ISBN: 9781681496993
Publisher: Ignatius Press
Published: 2018-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

9

Little Brown Bag

Slogans are an influential tool for getting a point across. They can crystallize the message of a movement in a way that is both memorable and succinct. For ardent abortion advocates, their jingles do just that. They also quite effectively paint those who fight for the lives of the unborn as odious misogynists who endeavor to guarantee that hapless women are saddled with gaggles of unwanted children.

We have a voice, and we have a choice!

2-4-6-8, you can’t make us procreate!

When women’s rights are under attack, what do we do? Stand up! Fight back!

Over and over the abortion advocate machine would drone about women’s rights, fighting for the women’s right to choose. And as an impressionable and secretly post-abortive college student, I chanted right along with them. With the opposition fundamentally demonized, I was proud to enlist as a soldier in the army for the rights of my fellow women.

As I rose in the ranks from a health center assistant to a clinic director, my passion to protect a woman’s right to choose only grew. I truly felt that I was helping my sisters in their time of distress. I considered it an honor.

One day I happened to be at the front desk when a girl entered the clinic. I’ll call her Melanie. She caught my eye right away. She seemed distracted, disheveled. Her deeply creased clothes betrayed the fact that she had most likely slept in them. The majority of her dark brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, but large clumps arranged themselves haphazardly around her face. She clutched a brown paper bag to her chest.

“Could I. . . Is there any way that I could. . . I just have a question. . .” Her voice, which had barely reached above a whisper, trailed off. Her light brown eyes briefly met mine before darting away. A smattering of freckles covered her nose and cheekbones.

“Come on back,” I said.

Although I was scheduled to leave for lunch in a matter of minutes, I instantly felt protective of this mousy young thing. I wanted to make sure that she was handled with kid gloves. My burger could wait. Head down and shoulders hunched, she followed me to one of the counseling rooms. She sat and fixed her eyes, pieces of hair hanging in her face, and gripped the paper bag to her chest as if her very life depended on its contents.

“What can I do for you?”

She sighed deeply, lifted her eyes to meet mine, and shoved the bag toward me. Inside were four pills. The packaging read misoprostol 800 mcg.

“Could you please tell me how I will know if I need to go to the emergency room after I take these?”

My mind flashed back to my own medication abortion. I had thought that I was making the most sensible and noninvasive choice when faced with an unplanned pregnancy. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I was sold a quick solution to my problem by popping a few

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