This was directed to someone on another conversation. Wny this person chose me, out of the millions out here, means I hit a nerve.
That's what I'm here for. NOt just to talk but to 'hit' the mark.
I'm not going to entertain Rants or 'sob Stories' of why you should be able to commit atrocities to suit the life you have. I'm just not. This person turned a conversation about Molech into why Molech should be fed 3K kids per day.
I dont agree with it, I never will. So if you are here to 'convert' me, good luck.
I feel so Honored that you would share that with me. Like I can make the choice and the decision.
This isn't Facebook and I choose not to dialog about God's Ways of Life and Death.
I can't even verify this is a True Story, it simply your words on a strangers pages.
Do we lay in judgement of the innocent at the behest of our selves?
You will have to tell God why you did something or didn't do something but make no mistake, the Choice you make, is YOUR's to Deal with. Shall we leave 'God out' and say 'the Choice is between you and your doctor'. If you read the Scripture, and I trust you do as you are on a Bible Believer's page, you know that YOU will GIVE an Account for EVERY Choice you make.
I dont judge anyone.
You choose...your choice...your consequences, good or bad, YOU will give an account to God. YOU will face God one day and tell him WHY you made the Choice you did.
And YOU will face God's judgement or God's Mercy depending on if YOU have repented of such Choices.
I want to believe you, but I dont know you and the fact that someone would hare such intimate Details on a Strangers page, really gives me...pause.
I wish you Peace in Your Journey and that you come to where I'm sitting...
To Practice what I preach! I preach Life and God's Peace and Love. and the ONLY thing that Sets you free....is Truth.
Practice what you preach? This is response to my comment regarding rape pregnancy
This dangerous legislation is rooted in the same twisted logic that I found myself pushing up against over thirty years ago.
It was a battle I lost. My abortion story contains no abortion—but it should have.
On a Tuesday afternoon in 1986, I sat in a military doctor’s office, my eyes fixed on the textbook open in front of me. The doctor pointed to a distressing photo on the page—a newborn baby, purple-blue, lying on a metal tray. The image was captioned “anencephalic monster.”
The baby’s head was misshapen; her brain was missing.
“This is your baby,” the doctor said. “The condition is not compatible with life.” He told me that I had two choices: carry the pregnancy to term, or have an abortion.
I burst into tears. I had known, from the expression on the ultrasound tech’s face, that something was wrong during my 20-week checkup.
In the intervening time, I’d been shuffled to the waiting room, where I sat for three hours alone. Surrounded by people I didn’t know and magazines I was too anxious to read, my thoughts had wandered a landscape of terrifying possibilities. But the truth was more excruciating than I could have imagined.
At the time, I was a 24-year-old soldier in the U.S. Army, stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. Before my recent marriage, I’d been a single mother to my young son.
My new husband and I had been overjoyed to discover that I was pregnant. All signs pointed to a healthy baby girl, and by the 20-week mark, I had begun to nest. I purchased tiny nightgowns, painted the nursery, decorated it with pink lace. I even purchased a stuffed koala, imagining her cuddling it someday.
After my appointment, I went home and told my husband, through tears, that our baby would not survive. He left for the bar.
Desperate and alone, I decided that I needed a second opinion—and then a third. But both the civilian obstetrician and the one at Planned Parenthood confirmed that the worst was true.
My baby would die, no matter which course I chose.
The Planned Parenthood physician was the kindest, warmest presence in my nightmarish journey so far. She explained that North Carolina law prohibited abortions after 20 weeks except when provided at a hospital, and under a very narrow set of circumstances. An option was to go out of state for the procedure, but I would have had to drive for eight hours and pay $1,500, at a time when my household’s monthly wages were just $1,800. With a four-year-old at home to care for, it would have been impossible.
I recalled the military doctor’s words as he met my eyes over that textbook. He’d said that I had a choice.
During the next two weeks, I treasured each of my baby’s wiggles and kicks. I prayed, willing the reality to change. I didn’t want to terminate my pregnancy; I wanted a healthy baby girl. The only door I wanted to walk through was closed to me.
But we can only choose where a choice is given. I couldn’t bear the thought of my baby being born to a short, painful life. I was afraid for my health. I couldn’t bear the idea that my son could lose his mother, that this agony could become his, too. I knew that I had to terminate the pregnancy.
At the military hospital, alone, with a broken heart and tears in my eyes, I signed the consent form. I was certain that I was making the best choice for myself and my children.
I was prepped, and steeled myself for the procedure. Then the doctor entered the room and told me that he could not move forward. It was against military policy to “unnecessarily” terminate a pregnancy. Unhelpfully, he added, “rules are rules.”
I was stunned. I was shattered. I couldn’t believe that I was not allowed to make my own decision about my pregnancy. The freedom I had fought for in the Army did not extend to my own body.
I was forced to continue the pregnancy for sixteen more weeks. For months, I felt my baby move and grow. For months, I was haunted by the looming prospect of her pain. Overwhelmed by love, I longed for what most parents want—the ability to spare my child from suffering.
Over and over I asked myself: Is she suffering even now, inside me?
On February 2, 1987, I went into labor. I gave birth to my daughter, Megan, in the care of a labor and delivery nurse whose gentle attention would make a permanent impression on me, later inspiring me to join the profession myself.
The moments I had with my daughter were peaceful, beautiful, and rich. Megan lived for eight hours and 50 minutes. She was baptized, and her brother inspected her tiny fingers and toes. I gave her a bath, dressing her in one of the nightgowns I’d purchased for her what seemed like a lifetime ago.
She took her last breath in my arms.
For the past 20 years, I have had the heavy privilege of consoling grieving parents. I have caressed the soft head of a critically ill baby. I have cried with mothers as they said their final goodbyes.
Nobody should ever have to face the situation I found myself in. If anti-abortion extremists continue to dominate our discourse and define our policy, more and more people will.
Megan gave me a gift 35 years ago: she taught me to trust others without judgment, to respect the choices people make for themselves and the ones they love.
This was directed to someone on another conversation. Wny this person chose me, out of the millions out here, means I hit a nerve.
That's what I'm here for. NOt just to talk but to 'hit' the mark.
I'm not going to entertain Rants or 'sob Stories' of why you should be able to commit atrocities to suit the life you have. I'm just not. This person turned a conversation about Molech into why Molech should be fed 3K kids per day.
I dont agree with it, I never will. So if you are here to 'convert' me, good luck.
I feel so Honored that you would share that with me. Like I can make the choice and the decision.
This isn't Facebook and I choose not to dialog about God's Ways of Life and Death.
I can't even verify this is a True Story, it simply your words on a strangers pages.
Do we lay in judgement of the innocent at the behest of our selves?
You will have to tell God why you did something or didn't do something but make no mistake, the Choice you make, is YOUR's to Deal with. Shall we leave 'God out' and say 'the Choice is between you and your doctor'. If you read the Scripture, and I trust you do as you are on a Bible Believer's page, you know that YOU will GIVE an Account for EVERY Choice you make.
I dont judge anyone.
You choose...your choice...your consequences, good or bad, YOU will give an account to God. YOU will face God one day and tell him WHY you made the Choice you did.
And YOU will face God's judgement or God's Mercy depending on if YOU have repented of such Choices.
I want to believe you, but I dont know you and the fact that someone would hare such intimate Details on a Strangers page, really gives me...pause.
I wish you Peace in Your Journey and that you come to where I'm sitting...
To Practice what I preach! I preach Life and God's Peace and Love. and the ONLY thing that Sets you free....is Truth.
Not Govt
Not Military
Not Media
TRUTH and TRUTH alone
Practice what you preach? This is response to my comment regarding rape pregnancy
This dangerous legislation is rooted in the same twisted logic that I found myself pushing up against over thirty years ago.
It was a battle I lost. My abortion story contains no abortion—but it should have.
On a Tuesday afternoon in 1986, I sat in a military doctor’s office, my eyes fixed on the textbook open in front of me. The doctor pointed to a distressing photo on the page—a newborn baby, purple-blue, lying on a metal tray. The image was captioned “anencephalic monster.”
The baby’s head was misshapen; her brain was missing.
“This is your baby,” the doctor said. “The condition is not compatible with life.” He told me that I had two choices: carry the pregnancy to term, or have an abortion.
I burst into tears. I had known, from the expression on the ultrasound tech’s face, that something was wrong during my 20-week checkup.
In the intervening time, I’d been shuffled to the waiting room, where I sat for three hours alone. Surrounded by people I didn’t know and magazines I was too anxious to read, my thoughts had wandered a landscape of terrifying possibilities. But the truth was more excruciating than I could have imagined.
At the time, I was a 24-year-old soldier in the U.S. Army, stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. Before my recent marriage, I’d been a single mother to my young son.
My new husband and I had been overjoyed to discover that I was pregnant. All signs pointed to a healthy baby girl, and by the 20-week mark, I had begun to nest. I purchased tiny nightgowns, painted the nursery, decorated it with pink lace. I even purchased a stuffed koala, imagining her cuddling it someday.
After my appointment, I went home and told my husband, through tears, that our baby would not survive. He left for the bar.
Desperate and alone, I decided that I needed a second opinion—and then a third. But both the civilian obstetrician and the one at Planned Parenthood confirmed that the worst was true.
My baby would die, no matter which course I chose.
The Planned Parenthood physician was the kindest, warmest presence in my nightmarish journey so far. She explained that North Carolina law prohibited abortions after 20 weeks except when provided at a hospital, and under a very narrow set of circumstances. An option was to go out of state for the procedure, but I would have had to drive for eight hours and pay $1,500, at a time when my household’s monthly wages were just $1,800. With a four-year-old at home to care for, it would have been impossible.
I recalled the military doctor’s words as he met my eyes over that textbook. He’d said that I had a choice.
During the next two weeks, I treasured each of my baby’s wiggles and kicks. I prayed, willing the reality to change. I didn’t want to terminate my pregnancy; I wanted a healthy baby girl. The only door I wanted to walk through was closed to me.
But we can only choose where a choice is given. I couldn’t bear the thought of my baby being born to a short, painful life. I was afraid for my health. I couldn’t bear the idea that my son could lose his mother, that this agony could become his, too. I knew that I had to terminate the pregnancy.
At the military hospital, alone, with a broken heart and tears in my eyes, I signed the consent form. I was certain that I was making the best choice for myself and my children.
I was prepped, and steeled myself for the procedure. Then the doctor entered the room and told me that he could not move forward. It was against military policy to “unnecessarily” terminate a pregnancy. Unhelpfully, he added, “rules are rules.”
I was stunned. I was shattered. I couldn’t believe that I was not allowed to make my own decision about my pregnancy. The freedom I had fought for in the Army did not extend to my own body.
I was forced to continue the pregnancy for sixteen more weeks. For months, I felt my baby move and grow. For months, I was haunted by the looming prospect of her pain. Overwhelmed by love, I longed for what most parents want—the ability to spare my child from suffering.
Over and over I asked myself: Is she suffering even now, inside me?
On February 2, 1987, I went into labor. I gave birth to my daughter, Megan, in the care of a labor and delivery nurse whose gentle attention would make a permanent impression on me, later inspiring me to join the profession myself.
The moments I had with my daughter were peaceful, beautiful, and rich. Megan lived for eight hours and 50 minutes. She was baptized, and her brother inspected her tiny fingers and toes. I gave her a bath, dressing her in one of the nightgowns I’d purchased for her what seemed like a lifetime ago.
She took her last breath in my arms.
For the past 20 years, I have had the heavy privilege of consoling grieving parents. I have caressed the soft head of a critically ill baby. I have cried with mothers as they said their final goodbyes.
Nobody should ever have to face the situation I found myself in. If anti-abortion extremists continue to dominate our discourse and define our policy, more and more people will.
Megan gave me a gift 35 years ago: she taught me to trust others without judgment, to respect the choices people make for themselves and the ones they love.
It’s time for politicians to do the same.