Authors: Abby Johnson,Cindy Lambert
Tags: #Non-Fiction, #Inspirational, #Biography, #Religion
With Planned Parenthood now playing a greater part in my life, I decided to tell my parents about my volunteer work for the organization. My method of easing into the topic is a good indicator of a game I was playing with myself. When I mentioned it the first few times, I emphasized that I was working at a Planned Parenthood health clinic for women. I suspect my parents weren’t really aware at the time of what Planned Parenthood was all about. Fortunately, my mom didn’t ask if they did abortions, and I certainly didn’t bring it up. Over time, though, the subject worked its way into our conversations, and when it did, I was sure to emphasize the talking points I’d learned for Lobby Day.
“You know, Mom, Planned Parenthood’s goal is to make abortion rare, so we really emphasize ways to prevent unwanted pregnancy.”
One day I had a conversation with a longtime friend who, when I told her of my work with Planned Parenthood, got quite upset with me. The next day I complained about this to my mom over the phone. It became crystal clear to me that Mom also disapproved of the organization where I worked.
“Well, Abby, you work at an abortion clinic. People don’t like that. It’s one of the most controversial places in the country to work. If this is what you plan to do, you’d better get used to the fact that lots of people are not going to approve. If that’s something you can’t handle, then you need to find some other place to work.”
You’ve gotta love my mom—she tells it like it is. I chalked her reaction up to old-fashioned thinking. But to her credit she didn’t let it become a barrier in our relationship. She and my dad still welcomed my daily calls, loved me, and kept the bond between us strong. In that they never wavered.
That spring brought another development to my life. In March, my friend Doug (yes, the same one who teased me about collecting strays) and I began dating. Doug and I shared many of the same passions—teaching, making the world a better place, caring for people facing difficulties. Doug was at nearby Sam Houston State University studying to become a special education teacher. He was kind and compassionate and had a great sense of humor. He was also a Christian whose faith was an important part of his life. I was drawn to him for all those reasons, but I particularly admired how his faith shaped his values and choices. I sensed a strength and consistency in his life—an integration of his beliefs with his practices—which I knew was lacking in my own life. Even more, I felt he accepted and cared about me without judging me, and that acceptance made me feel safe enough to share my story with him, including the truth about both my abortions.
Doug didn’t approve of abortion, yet he didn’t punish me. Instead he engaged me in lively discussions that challenged my reason and logic—or perhaps I should say my lack of them. I confess, I am never one to back away from a good debate, so when we’d get into such discussions I’d come out swinging.
“Doug, the real issue is viability. I don’t approve of late-term abortions at all, because by that time the fetus has become viable and could live outside the womb. But before that, it’s just an undeveloped fetus that couldn’t possibly survive on its own. If it is an unwanted pregnancy, isn’t it better to offer the woman a safe alternative to end it early on?”
“Abby, how can you think that? You’re a smart person. We’re talking about a baby from the start, at two weeks or six, at twelve weeks or twenty. How can it be okay to abort at eight weeks but not at sixteen? Viability shifts as medical science improves. Are you saying that the measure of what is human, what is moral or immoral, flexes as science advances?”
And we’d go on. I’d dig in, he’d question back, but it didn’t escalate to contempt. Instead, we each felt cared for and respected by the other. Doug admired my heart for the clients. I’d tell him about the situations of the women who came in, not just those seeking abortions, but women dealing with all sorts of issues—abuse, rape, poverty, illness. I’d tell him the ways we helped those women, and I could tell that he cared too.
I’d also tell him about the pro-lifers. I knew he’d enjoy hearing about one of the regulars at the fence. I poked fun at some of the more outlandish antics and griped about those who caused a scene. But I also kept him up to speed on some of the regulars.
“Doug, have I told you about Mr. Orozco?”
“Who?”
“He’s one of the most faithful pro-lifers they have. And he’s really nice. I found out today that he’s a retired policeman, thirty-three years with the Bryan force. He stands at the exact same spot every Wednesday and Saturday morning for an hour, like clockwork. I don’t think he’s ever missed a day.”
“How do you know so much about him?”
“Oh, we chat sometimes. Whenever he sees me he says, ‘Hi, Abby, how are you today? I hope you have a wonderful day.’ He’s so sweet. He never bothers our clients at all, just takes his spot and greets everybody. Today it was burning up outside, and there he stood with an umbrella to keep the sun off him, just waving and greeting me like an old friend. He must be in his seventies, but no matter what the weather, he’s out there, friendly as can be. You’d like him.”
“I like him already,” Doug answered. “Sounds to me like he’s a faithful one. You haven’t mentioned Marilisa lately. Is she still out there?”
“Oh yeah. She was there the other day. She’s another one who’s just so friendly. She was training a new volunteer. I’ve noticed that she and Shawn have quieted things down a good bit on their side of the fence. You know that lady with the awful enlarged photo of the aborted fetus that I’ve told you about?”
“Yes.”
“Shawn took her aside one day last week and talked to her, and then she left. I haven’t seen her since.”
“Really? Hasn’t she been coming since forever? What do you think that’s about?” Doug asked.
“I’ve been getting the feeling that those Coalition people are trying to change the atmosphere at the fence, quieting the troublemakers. It seems to be working, too. And Shawn and Marilisa appear to be training volunteers to take the same friendly, conversational approach they use. It’s changed a lot. I haven’t seen the Grim Reaper for a long while, now that I think about it.”
“You know, Abby, when you think of people like Marilisa and Mr. Orozco volunteering their time, does it ever occur to you that you might have a lot more in common with the Coalition people than you realize?”
“Yeah, right. We have one thing in common—the fence. But we’re on opposite sides of it, remember?” After all, I reasoned, we were faced off at the fence. But I had to admit, when I watched Marilisa talk to clients, I often thought that she and I shared a bond of compassion for the women coming to our clinic. On the other hand, I’d heard rumblings about some kind of Coalition campaign.
I had no idea what was about to unfold.
Chapter Six
40 Days and 40 Nights
The dynamic at the fence had been changing, thanks to enormous efforts by David, Shawn, and Marilisa along with other Coalition for Life supporters working behind the scenes. I only saw what happened at the fence. I was clueless about the extent of their other efforts. In August 2004, we discovered that the scope of those efforts had increased exponentially.
“Abby, guess who knocked on my door at home yesterday?” a clinic volunteer asked one day that month.
“Who?”
“Shawn Carney.”
“Really? What on earth did he want?”
“It was the strangest thing. When I opened the door, we recognized each other. ‘I know who you are,’ I told him, and he recognized me, too. Then he said, ‘We’re just doing a simple campaign. We’re asking people to pray for an end to abortion.’”
“He just came knocking on your door out of the blue and asked you to pray? That’s it? What did you say?”
“I said, ‘I can do that.’ He thanked me and headed to the next house. One of my neighbors said it looked like he was going to every house in the neighborhood.”
I later learned that the Coalition for Life canvassed 25,000 homes with that same simple request. I was impressed. In fact, as I went to bed that night, I felt a nudge to pray the same prayer myself. But I felt oddly conflicted. On the one hand, I should be happy to pray for an end to abortion. I wanted the number of abortions to decrease, right? But on the other, I didn’t want abortion to end because I wanted women who felt they needed them to continue to be able to get them.
What would I have done and felt that night if I hadn’t had two abortions myself? I couldn’t imagine. For one thing, I’d have been the mother of two preschoolers, so I certainly wouldn’t have been able to finish school—not if I had to work to support them and pay for housing and day care. What kind of future would I have had? No. I
needed
those abortions, right? Abortion was a necessary option.
A few days later, on September 1, the Coalition for Life launched the first-ever 40 Days for Life campaign. None of us—neither the clinic workers nor the pro-life volunteers—could have dreamed what God would set in motion through this campaign. Every hour, day and night, for forty days the Coalition posted volunteers at the fence. Inside the clinic, we peered out and discussed how well organized they were. Clearly this wasn’t the same mismatched group we’d been seeing on abortion days. It was abundantly clear that now they were cooperating with each other. Their numbers had increased too—by a lot! They were working in shifts, with new folks arriving to relieve others like clockwork.
Many simply stood for their hour and prayed. Some approached the fence, but when they addressed patients, they spoke gently and offered literature or an invitation to come outside the fence to talk—no accusations, no nasty signs, simply a peaceful, prayerful force. And they consistently spoke words of welcome and kindness to us clinic workers. In fact, they were killing us with kindness.
Camera crews from the media soon showed up. That concerned us greatly because the women who come to a Planned Parenthood clinic don’t want their pictures flashed on the nightly newscast. Even those who weren’t coming for abortions might be coming for gynecological visits, birth control, and annual exams—all very personal, private matters. No one coming to or going from such an appointment would want an audience.
Some staff members at our clinic and at headquarters in Houston definitely seemed unhappy about the campaign. On the other hand, it presented Planned Parenthood with a fresh opportunity to publicly position itself. The usual Planned Parenthood talking points took on heightened language as if we were under siege, using phrases like “antiabortion protesters converging in demonstrations to harass our volunteers and clients.” The police were called to the clinic a few times, and I was told their presence was needed to “protect” the workers and staff.
Once the early days of the 40 Days campaign were past and the TV camera crews gone, I was trying to figure out exactly why certain Planned Parenthood staffers felt so threatened by the campaign. I didn’t like the feeling that we were surrounded by a 24/7 campaign either, but after all, it’s not like they were firing guns or bombs at us—they were praying, for goodness’ sake. How could that hurt? But the tension inside the clinic mounted. I was still just a part-time volunteer, so I reasoned that maybe the campaign was stressing the full-time workers in a way I couldn’t quite grasp. After all, forty days and forty nights—those are biblical proportions! That’s a long time to be surrounded nonstop by a large group of people who disagree with you but are so persistently . . . well . . .
nice
about it. It created an atmosphere I couldn’t quite articulate.
As the campaign wore on, I tried to understand my mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, as a believer in God, how could I be unhappy about people praying? In fact, I wished I had the kind of prayer life some of the 40 Days for Life volunteers appeared to have—it seemed so real to them. My own efforts at prayer had been steadily drying up. I argued to myself that I should welcome these prayers. Many of the pro-lifers said things like “I’m praying for you today,” and “I hope you have a peace-filled day” as I walked to and from my car.
On the other hand, I have to admit that I resented it. Clearly the implication was that God was on their side, not ours, and I vacillated between squirming in discomfort and feeling downright irritated at their arrogance. I considered myself a prochoice Christian and knew lots of other people like me. I was helping people who needed help and, I believed, saving and improving lives. I didn’t appreciate being surrounded and constantly watched by people who believed I was on the devil’s side. After the first few weeks, I realized I was ticked off! Then at night I would chastise myself: What was the matter with me? How could I resent prayer?
When October 10, 2004, the last day of the 40 Days for Life campaign, finally rolled around, all of us at the clinic were relieved. But the irony was not lost on me: I was relieved that a
prayer
campaign was ending. Wasn’t there something wrong with that?
Within six months of that first 40 Days for Life campaign, three very exciting things happened in my life. First, Doug proposed and I accepted. That same month, I was offered a part-time job at the Bryan clinic as a health-center assistant, working directly with patients for intake interviews and counseling women who had just learned they were pregnant. Four weeks later, I graduated from Texas A&M with my undergrad degree in psychology, and my position at the Bryan clinic was increased to full time.
I was thrilled! I’d studied and trained in psychology and counseling, and now I was doing it! I was sure this was what I was born to do. I now spent forty hours a week interacting with patients. I explained procedures and options, comforted, and counseled. I could see the difference I was making in women’s lives, and I took that as proof of God’s blessing.
Now that I was counseling women in crisis pregnancies, asking them if they wanted to see their ultrasound photo before making their final decision, I gave in to my own curiosity, which had surfaced under these new circumstances. I secretly looked up my own patient file and for the first time, laid eyes on the ultrasound photo of my own pregnancy taken the day of my medication abortion just over a year before. At eight weeks the fetus was quite small. As I studied the image, I was somewhat surprised to feel a deep sadness. I believed what I had been taught to believe—that the image showed a fetus and not a baby. But as I slid the photo back into the file, I choked back a wave of unexpected remorse.
“Mom,” I announced into the phone one day after work, “you won’t believe a case we had this week!” I was always eager to tell her something positive from the clinic. “A woman came in complaining of several physical problems. When we examined her, we discovered she had significant uterine cancer, and we got her to the ER for an emergency hysterectomy.” I was overcome with the sense that God’s hand had been present as we fought for this woman’s life. I felt privileged to have been by her side, offering comfort and practical assistance. And I told myself that this situation justified the existence of our clinic and my role there.
Another day a woman came in who had recently been raped and now suspected she was pregnant. She was in such emotional pain. After confirming her fears through a pregnancy test, then listening to her and comforting her, I walked her through the three choices we presented when clients had an unwanted pregnancy: parent, place for adoption, or abort. In this case, after counseling, the woman decided on adoption. I connected her to a Christian adoption organization. They were able to link her up with a family. Accepting that the child had been conceived through sexual assault, the adoptive family not only gave the baby a wonderful home, but they extended tremendous support and love to the young birth mother herself. I found deep joy in being part of bringing such God-given healing to this wounded woman, another confirmation to me that God had me here for a purpose: to do His work in a broken world.
“I just know I’m here for a reason,” I told Doug. “I share a mission with my coworkers to care for our patients. Several of us feel that way.” But then I admitted I only felt that way when the woman chose not to abort. I found that odd, since I still believed that we needed legal access to abortion and that Planned Parenthood should offer it. Otherwise lives would be lost, or women would be hurt through botched abortions by unqualified providers. If that sounds more like talking points than a conversation between loved ones, you’re right. Yet I repeated those talking points a good bit, as if hoping to convince my mom or Doug—or more likely myself—that the clinic was doing God’s work.
“Abby, I know you love your job,” Doug responded, “but do you really think you can separate what goes on there into two unrelated matters and pretend that the good done on the one hand cancels out the abortion on the other? Doing wonderful things doesn’t balance out the ending of babies’ lives. Your paycheck comes from those abortions, Abby. How do you reconcile that?”
I fumed. “We don’t do any late-term abortions, Doug. We don’t end the lives of babies. That’s just misinformation—right-wing political propaganda! At the early stages, a fetus is just not viable outside the womb. Far better to remove fetal tissue early than to bring an unwanted baby into this world. Can you imagine where society would be today if all the abortions since
Roe v. Wade
hadn’t happened? Besides, women have the right—the responsibility—to determine if and when they want to have a child.” The debate was repeated more times than I can count.
I had two coworkers who were devout Catholics. One Monday they told me they’d heard an antiabortion sermon on Sunday. They confided to me that they felt the same way I did—that they were doing God’s work except for abortion cases, and they talked about how they avoided any connection to the rooms where abortions were performed. We affirmed one another’s thinking. In truth, nearly all of my colleagues worked in the clinic because of a sincere desire to help women—and many, like me, were drawn in spite of, not because of, abortion.
One day I counseled another woman who had been raped. Our counseling session was heartbreaking, and I agonized with her over her trauma. After vacillating back and forth, she chose abortion. I remember the depth of her weeping after it was over. In the months that followed, as she returned for checkups, we talked about her healing process. After several months, she felt that she was dealing with the rape fairly well.
“I was the victim. I completely understand that I carry no blame for the rape. But,” she began weeping, “I keep having nightmares about the abortion. I feel so much guilt. I know I deliberately took the life of my child.”
I tried to assure her that she’d made a difficult but understandable decision, but she looked back at me with absolute certainty and declared, “This is guilt I will carry the rest of my life.” I couldn’t help but feel guilt myself for the part I had played in her story.
I would discover over time that this was not uncommon. I’ve seen many women suffer emotional pain and guilt, often for years, over their decision to abort. In cases of rape, I found it particularly sad because often abortion seemed to add a new wound on top of the first.
During our engagement, Doug and I decided we wanted to make Sunday worship a regular part of our lives. I hadn’t attended church regularly since I’d left home for college, and I longed to connect more deeply with God, especially after the 40 Days for Life campaign by the Coalition for Life. After visiting a few churches, we found one we both enjoyed. The service was contemporary, something new to both of us, given our conservative upbringings, and the sermons were stirring my heart. I was excited about becoming part of a church again. Even so, God still seemed distant. I would try to pray but often felt distracted. At times, I was afraid to pray—afraid that God would tell me to give up my job. I didn’t want to give it up. I felt useful there.
On Sunday mornings I felt like a spiritual misfit, surrounded by people in touch with God while I just felt left out in the cold. But I wanted to belong—really belong—among other Christians. I was careful to avoid conversations about where I worked. Not that I was ashamed of where I worked, I’d tell myself, but I knew so many people wouldn’t understand the good we did there. But it was impossible to avoid the subject entirely. Eventually word got around.
I didn’t realize how significant that revelation would be.
After attending this church for several months, Doug and I decided we wanted to join. We mentioned it to one of the staff members, and the following week he approached us after the service. When I turned to give him a warm greeting, I could see that he felt awkward and uncomfortable.