Her

It is a debate that seems to resurface in waves throughout our existence. Sometimes the waves are small gatherings of wake washing upon the shore, and other times the waves are 6-foot tall swells; perfect for surfing, but disastrous for discussion. It can be a polarizing topic that causes people to tip toe around it… unless they are certain they are in the company of those who think like they do.

For a while now, I have been mulling over this large, complexed, personal, polarizing, painful topic. There are so many angles that I could approach it from, but I keep coming back to this one: the other. I can’t help but keep thinking about the woman who stands on the other end of such a massive decision and what She must be thinking. How She must be feeling. What “impossibilities” have led Her here. And because I keep coming back to Her, saying what she should do, and demanding the “right” thing from her, doesn’t feel natural to me. Rewinding her story to figure out how I can help her before she gets to this point, does. That feels more human to me. More personal. The way that I desire others to interact with me. It takes little to no work at all to stay on the surface with someone. It requires a lot more strength to step in to the muck with them and offer to hold their hand while they wade through it all. The surface is easy and safe. The muck is challenging and often messy. But the work that is often done in the muck is far more powerful than the efforts that are made in the shallows of the surface.

From the outset, I would like it to be known that I am a champion of others’ potential. Viewing people through the lens of who they can become instead of who they currently are is very much the lane I delight the most in driving in. So, the potential of the other person in this situation is very important to me, and frankly, their value, goes without saying. However, I have chosen to go beyond the obvious choice of who we deem the voiceless in this situation, and have found myself thinking a lot lately about the other person involved in this tragic circumstance. We don’t usually see her as voiceless, because technically, she can speak. But I keep mulling around the idea of how often She actually doesn’t, for fear of what awaits her on the other side if she does.

I imagine the decision to come to such extreme measures is not arrived at light-heartedly. I can almost smell the desperation oozing off of Her as I sit and think about what thoughts must be suffocating her as the life of another hangs in the balance. I imagine the perfect storm of fear, doubt, hopelessness and worry, squeezing out the ideal picture of what She thought her future was going to look like. And I envision the shame she must feel at the mere fact that she is even entertaining the idea of ending someone else’s story before it even begins. My heart breaks for Her. My heart pains for the other who is quite literally connected to this very important decision. And Desperation is not the only voice that She should have access to while she weighs such a hefty decision for the both of them; but more times than not, it is.

My empathy for Her runs deep, because at one point in my life, I was Her.

I was 18 years old. I had thought I’d found “the one”, and that “forever” was in our future. Because of the Bill of Goods that I had sold myself about him, it became easier and easier for me to keep letting the boundaries that I had set up for myself keep sliding further and further beyond the starting line. I ignored the U-Turn signs, and the ones that read “Dead End”, and at one particular point in our relationship, I had found myself down a road that I had no intention of driving down.

Immediately Regret came and set up shop on my heart, and Fear and Desperation weren’t too far behind to fulfill their plans of choking out the dreams for the future that I had laid out in front of me. Shame joined the party and got right to work reminding me that I was supposed to be a Christian. I was a Youth Leader for Jr. High girls for goodness sakes! “What kind of example will you be?!” It was all too much to bare on my own, but thankfully, I had people in my life at that time to drown out the jeers that F, D, and S had to offer. Because they had already proven to me that my heart was safe with them in previous times of difficulty, I knew that they would treat it gently when I brought it to them this time.

But I would be lying if I told you that I hadn’t entertained Desperation’s suggestions for a considerable amount of time before I let them pass. Shame has a way of doing that to you. Replaying “the worst case scenario” for you in your mind while you impatiently wait to see if it will actually come to pass. Thankfully, it didn’t come to pass for me that time. But I was lucky enough to have people in my corner who would walk with me every step of the way if it had.

Which brings me back to Her. And the reason why I can’t stop thinking about her…

You know who else I can’t stop thinking about? Jesus. Not specifically the deity of Him, but rather the people who He uses to show Himself to others through. That Jesus. The one who looks like a 12-year-old boy who met a drug addict in a park one day, decided to enter his muck, and let him know how much he was loved and by Whom. The Jesus that visits a woman every Wednesday night and says, “Even though you can’t physically make it outside anymore, I will come to you. I will sit with you. I will bring you a hot meal. I will let you know that you aren’t forgotten.” The Jesus that leaves their own family to go sit with others in the thickness of their grief, to make sure that they know that they don’t have to weather this storm alone. I want to be like that Jesus. I want to be that Jesus for Her. Just like those sweet souls were Jesus to 18-year-old me.

I want to do a better job of helping Her in the other tough situations in her life by offering a listening ear and a non-judgmental heart to her, so if She does happen to find herself on the porch of Surprise, that Desperation is no longer the only voice that She hears. I want to celebrate her wins – no matter how small they may be – so that she knows that someone is cheering her on now, but is also cheering her on to keep going in the direction of her goals and dreams. I want to remind Her of her value and her worth until I’m blue in the face, so that she guards it like the precious gift that it is, and only shares it with the person who counts it an honor to make a lifetime investment in it.

I want Her to know that I care. For Her. And for the life that might possibly be growing inside of her. And not just while it’s inside of her, but long after it makes its debut outside of her. I want Her to know that she won’t be alone on her journey with this new life, whichever path she chooses for it. Whether its to give it a place in her heart and her home, or to allow someone else’s heart and home to be filled with the life she birthed. I want her to know that what might seem like an interruption in her story, doesn’t have to be a period; it also has the option of being a comma.

I don’t claim to have the answers to all of the perplexed issues that are the kindling for fiery debates these days, but I can’t bring myself to accept that demeaning signs at a picket line are doing anybody any good. And they certainly aren’t moving the needle any closer to people feeling cared for. Which is my goal. To tirelessly let Her know that she is cared for. Deeply, passionately, unconditionally cared for. And that she was cared for long before she was even conceived.