AT LAST The End of Roe v. Wade

We only imagined this day for SO long.  

Roe vs. Wade was decided while I was yet too young to vote and when I really wasn’t paying attention to world events.  

On January 22, 1973, I had recently moved to Southern California to start the last leg of my education at Artesia High School, second semester, Grade 11.  I was pre-occupied with the cute boys there and what they thought of me.  I was not thinking of abortion at all.  I was thinking about the color we were going to paint the room I shared with my sister.

I didn’t know that Norma McCorvey (“Jane Roe”) was being used by feminists to have all the pro-life laws in all 50 states nullified so that she could abort her baby -- which she did not do because the baby was already born and the case was moot.

I didn’t know that an all-white all-male Supreme Court ruled that women should be able to abort their babies and that a companion case -- Doe v. Bolton -- redefined “health of the woman” and further clarified that abortion would henceforth be legal throughout the land for any reason up till the day of one’s birth.

I didn’t know in ‘73 that my own mother was pro-life (because I didn’t ask her), or that I could have also been at risk of being aborted since I had been conceived before my parents were married and that in 1956 they lived in a state where you could get an abortion.

I didn’t know that I was being trained, even back then in my high school years, to accept the concept of the “Population Explosion,” and that it followed that abortion was good for the Planet, though I really didn’t even know what it was.

And back then I did not know that God would speak to me through a speechless slug, who writhed in agony when I salted its tiny body, causing me to remember that a saline solution would do that to a tiny human during an abortion.

Back then, I did not know that eventually I would be part of the pro-life movement, fingerprinted and jailed for attempting to stop the daily killings at a few abortion mills.

In 1973, I had no idea that I would have eight children who would be extremely important to me, and that their stirrings and flutterings in my body would convince me of the sanctity of life at all stages.

I didn’t know that eventually “Jane Roe” would become pro-life, but her daughter, who was famously supposed to be slain, would grow up to hate her mother.  I also didn’t know that “Mary Doe” of Doe v. Bolton never even wanted an abortion and nobody even told her she had been used to change abortion laws.

And in 1973, I didn’t know -- how could we have known? -- that over 60 million children would be killed over the next nearly 50 years here in this civilized nation with “In God We Trust” inscribed on all our money.

But now we do know.  Now we have 3-D ultrasounds and we can watch the little children suck their thumbs, wave, swim, and yawn in utero.  We have the testimonies of former abortionists and clinic workers.  We have websites that prove abortion is killing not just babies, but their mothers.  

We know that Margaret Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood was a disgustingly racist eugenicist. 

We have information about Abortionist Kermit Gosnell and the Planned Parenthood baby parts traffickers.  We know about the Indiana Abortionist Ulrich Klopfer, who had over 2,400 jars of baby parts he had collected as souvenirs stored on his property when he died, and his heirs had the misfortune to stumble upon them.

We know that the Satanic Temple challenged the State of Texas because their Heartbeat Bill supposedly deprives them of their “freedom to practice their religion” -- with ritual killings of babies targeted for abortion.

We know that the “pro-choice” movement is not about choice at all.  It is all about abortion.  That is why enraged pro-aborts are targeting pro-life pregnancy centers, burning them down in an effort to eliminate all loving alternatives to killing babies.

We know that Roe v. Wade was improperly decided, because there is NO Constitutional right to abortion.  It couldn’t hold water.  And when Planned Parenthood vs. Casey expanded “abortion rights,” it made matters even worse.

Every day at 3:00, our church prayed that God would close the Planned Parenthood in Lafayette.  He answered yesterday, with this ruling.  Planned Parenthood v. Casey was also thrown out along with Roe.  God wanted to not just close down that one Planned Parenthood, but all of them.

Friday, June 24, 2022, was the most significant day in my adult life.  I was in the kitchen having a coffee break when the news flashed across my phone:  “RSB Network with breaking news -- Roe v. Wade OVERTURNED!”  I gasped and then immediately sent a text to some of my friends  Because this is bigger than 9-11, much more important than Jan. 6, bigger than any war in our history -- it is a life changer.  President Trump said “God made the decision.”

This picture shows a POW bracelet my parents bought for me as a teenager.  The idea was to wear your bracelet until the POW or MIA from the Vietnam War was released or we recovered his remains.  Then we were supposed to send all of them to the families.  I wasn’t diligent enough to wear this reminder and I totally missed the event where Lt. Col Gilbert Palmer’s remains had been sent home to the States.  I know the families were melting down the bracelets and making memorials to their loved ones.

But the other bracelet was made later, maybe in the late ‘80s.  We were supposed to wear those until Roe v. Wade was overturned, which just finally happened yesterday.  Nobody knew the abortion holocaust would take nearly 50 years to stop.

Like with the POW bracelets, there should be a monument made to honor the 60 million+ children who were killed during the era of Roe.  But the number of Jews killed in the Nazi Holocaust was only a tenth of that and museums to remember the dead are overwhelming.  The number of names on the Vietnam War Memorial is less than one thousandth of the babies slaughtered during Roe, but a visit there leaves its mark. 

A memorial to the casualties of Roe would be really huge … but with only a few names.  

The truth of the matter is, the work is still not over, for the job of protecting life has been sent back to the individual states.  And now the next phase begins, where the states must respond to the ruling and do what is right.  Missouri became the first state to abolish abortion, and several others had “trigger laws” in place.  Others will be slower at signing on.  Some will make themselves sanctuary states for baby killing and that is simply demonic.

We must do several things:

1. Make certain that our own states enact pro-life laws stating that Abortion is NOT protected here.  Every day we wait will cost more lives.

2. Declare in our states that children in the womb are persons, deserving of protection.  Pre-born children are people, in every way imaginable.

3. Thank the Lord for the answer to nearly 50 years of prayer, and for allowing President Trump to be elected and to nominate three key justices to the Supreme Court.

4. Pray that God will finish the work of closing down those Planned Parenthoods -- all of them.

5. Pray for the safety of the members of the Supreme Court, who had the courage to do what was right.

Our governor has stated, in response to the Supreme Court ruling, that he has always said he is pro-life, so let’s get it done, Governor Holcomb!  There’s a special session of our state legislature scheduled for July 6.  It needs to happen.

Today at 2:00 there’s an event at the Statehouse in Indy.

And this Sunday, tomorrow, there’s a rally at the Tippecanoe County Courthouse at 2:00 to attract the attention of our lawmakers.  The pro-aborts will certainly be rioting and burning at night, while we rally during the day.  We must not be afraid.  The Supreme Court did their part, and we must now do ours.  

Dear Father in Heaven, the news yesterday was glorious!  We thank you, for as President Trump declared, You made yesterday’s decision.  He is right to credit You.  We are in awe as we consider how You heard our cries and changed the make-up of the Supreme Court so that this time could finally come.

Now we pray for healing, for our country, and for the families who were directly impacted by the senseless slaughter of innocent human life.  

We pray that our justice system would rise up and protect the pro-life pregnancy centers so they can minister to the mothers and babies.

We pray for the safety of the Supreme Court justices, that they would be surrounded by your hedge of protection as the anti-life forces turn out to inflict their wrath.

We pray for the state legislators who now are faced with the task of reimplementing life-honoring laws, that they would do what is right and do it quickly.  Most especially, I am asking you to nudge our state senators and representatives here in Indiana to get this job done.

And Lord, we pray that we would not rest until every single abortion is outlawed in America and around the world.  And not only outlawed, but unthinkable.

For we pray in Jesus’ Name, Who called Himself “The Way, the Truth, and the Life,”

Amen.

Born and Born Again

Many years ago, when I was packing lunches for my husband to take to work, I would fill a glass jar with tea on a hot summer day, and then add ice cubes.  The neck of the bottle was small, so I would just pound the ice cubes with my fist till they eventually broke through.  One day I learned that glass jars sometimes break when you do that, and because of the jagged cuts on my hand, I changed my methods.  When the cuts healed, I was left with a scar that looked like a “J.”  I said that was Jesus’ mark of ownership.  I wonder now what Jesus thought of that whole incident.  Maybe He, observing, said to Himself, “There’s a foolish one, but since she’s aware of her foolishness, I can do something with her.” 

Of course, Jesus saw all my life before I was even born, which earth-shattering event took place at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, D.C., October 1, 1956. I arrived about a month too early – not that I was a preemie, but I can do the math. 

Over time, I grew weary of my mom’s story about how she and Dad got married and then nine months later, there I was, so during one such story-telling session, I told the hearer that it was more like eight months.  Mom blushed and herded me to another room out of hearing distance to tell me that well, she and Dad had tried to get married, they intended to get married, but that things didn’t work out the way they had expected.  It wasn’t like they had to get married or anything.  That info didn’t really change the fact that I had been conceived when my mother was 17 and my father was 21, before they were married.  

Mom and Dad were finally married at the end of January, 1956, by the Justice of the Peace in Washington, D.C. (a place now known as "The Swamp.") They had previously attempted to tie the knot in Maryland, but Maryland didn’t allow mixed marriages back then, and since Dad was a short Puerto Rican airman with kinky black hair who had just returned from Saudi Arabia with a nice dark tan, and Mom was a blue-eyed strawberry blonde, they were suspect.  After that didn’t work, they drove into Washington, D.C., where there was less of an issue. D.C. didn't even require witnesses.

On my 50th birthday, October 1, 2006, I participated in a LifeChain event.  If you’ve never seen one of those, it’s where pro-lifers stand along a major roadway for an hour, usually socially-distanced, very quietly, with signs, mostly praying and softly singing.  The signs read “Abortion Kills Children,” “Abortion Hurts Women,” and “Jesus Heals and Forgives.”  

I do this every year, but it meant a great deal to me to do it on my birthday, because the circumstances of my birth were such that had it happened even 20 years later, there would have been a much greater chance that I would never have seen the light of day, and never would have had a birthday.  Instead of trying so hard to find a place to get married, my mom and dad could have found a place to do away with me, because killing babies in abortions was already available in some places, even if it wasn't exactly legal.  Anyway, I held my sign on my birthday, cried, prayed, thanked God that my parents gave me the gift of life, and cried and prayed some more. 

 

Growing up, I thought I led a fairly happy life overall, but I didn’t have many friends to speak of because Dad was a serviceman, and we moved a lot.  That suited me fine because if I started having friend problems, I knew we’d be moving soon and I could start over.  But there were never any close friends that way, none with whom I kept contact over the years.  I never really learned how to mend broken relationships.  I also had a pair of siblings who knew how to pester me:  Rennie Marie and Daniel Jr.  We didn't get along either, but they always came along when we moved.

We did go to a church or the base chapel, depending on where we lived.  When I was in sixth grade, Dad had to train at Eglin AFB for a temporary duty assignment in Vietnam, so the five of us left small town life in Sgt. Bluff, Iowa, and hauled our tiny vacation trailer to Florida for two months, to be with him for Christmas and for my parents’ anniversary.  We attended a real church there, a Southern Baptist one.  The pastor talked too loud and had a microphone to boot.  My siblings didn’t like him because they thought he yelled too much.  But every week, my heart was pounding hard in my chest as he passionately declared my need to get saved.

While we lived in Florida, there were some problems.  It was probably the first time I noticed anything going on in my parents’ marriage, but we were all in close quarters -- five people stuck in a one room vacation trailer, because it rained practically every day.  My dad hurt his back in training.  My sister and brother were loud and bouncy at ages 9 and 7, and I was just trying to get my homework done and a report finished with no possibility of even getting to a library.  My dad forgot their anniversary and when he remembered, he brought home a cheap box of chocolates.  As Mom was on a diet, that went over quite badly.  I remember a lot of yelling and crying.

The school bus took me to a place I didn’t understand because being a "military brat," I had truly never experienced it.  The white kids hated the black kids.  I remember playing the game of Seven-Up, where seven kids would lightly touch kids in the rest of the class while their heads were down and their eyes were closed.  Then the kids who were touched had to guess who their toucher was.  Only, rather weirdly I thought, the white kids would not touch the black kids, so the black kids never got to play.  

Then I found out that I was a target because I always knew all the answers to all the questions the teacher asked in class.  They were rather easy questions because the material had already been covered the year before in Iowa, and I considered myself the good kid who raised my hand, while the other kids played pickup-sticks in the back of the classroom.  Jealousy kicked in, and the other kids thought it was really fun to play tricks on the smart kid to save up “hits.” There was a game I didn't know, where if a kid was able to get me to look at them while they had their fingers cross-hatched over their eye, that would be worth three hits. Or, if they could get me to look into a circle, formed by the thumb and index finger, same thing. It was great fun for these kids to get in line behind me at lunchtime and beat on my back the required number of hits, as we raced to the lunchroom.

Home was tough, school was tough, and church was pleasant, even if my siblings didn’t like the amplified preacher.  I needed a Savior and I needed someone to help me.  I asked Mom about what I'd heard at church.  She said I could get saved because of Jesus’ sacrifice for us on the cross.  And then she told me I was supposed to “make a decision” for Christ and walk up to the front of the church during the invitation.  But, I shouldn’t do it yet because she wanted Dad to be there and he couldn’t come to church till his back was better.

I wondered why I didn’t know this before now!  What if I’d been killed in a tragic accident when I was nine and didn’t know Jesus as my Savior?  I’d have been consigned to hell!  But, instead of closing the deal at home, at my mother’s request, I waited a couple weeks till my dad’s back was better.  Then I went with my family to church, ready to “go forward and get saved.”

When I slipped up to the front of the church during the altar call time, I was ready.  The pastor asked me, kindly enough I suppose, why I was up there. 

“I want to get saved,” I answered readily. 

"Well," he said, "you weren't listening because I just asked the people who prayed in the pew to come forward." 

But the pastor prayed the *Sinner’s Prayer with me anyway, and I knew it had “taken.” Probably it had already had taken at home, because I most definitely believed, but this was reassuring. Thank God, I was born again! 

That night, December 31, 1967, I was back at the church for Part II: I was baptized in a white robe that covered my clothes.  I don't know how much my siblings remember, but they were there, too, along with members of the church and my parents, who were all smiles and exuding pride in their oldest child. I was just a kid, but the Lord sought me out.  I went through a fiery time those two months, but now that I had Jesus in my life, 1968 was more bearable. I applied those verses we memorized in Sunday School and I knew Jesus was there to help me.  What’s more, I would need even more of Him in days to come.

*Sample Sinner's Prayer: "Jesus, I confess to You that I am a sinner. I believe You died on the cross to save me from my sins and rose again from the dead, to make a way for me to live in Heaven with You. I thank You for that sacrifice and ask You to come into my heart and take control of my life. I gladly receive You now as my Savior, and my Lord."

"... that if you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved." ~Romans 10:9