My Heart

It used to be that every once in a while I would post something on social media pertaining to abortion and the pro-life movement.

Now it's basically every day.

There are times when I feel like a broken record.
Like an annoying "like" page on Facebook that no one wants to read.
Like I've said everything there is to say.
Like no matter what clever quote or argument I share, I'm not going to change anyone's mind.

So why can I not quit posting about my pro-life beliefs?

In his book Wild Goose Chase, Mark Batterson talks about how the passion that God places on your heart becomes your responsibility.

He says, "Supernatural sadness and righteous indignation often reveal our God-ordained passions. As in the case of Nehemiah, if something causes you to weep and mourn and fast and pray for days on end, it is a good indication that God wants you to take personal responsibility and do something about it."
"...what makes you cry? What makes you pound your fist on the table?"
"God-ordained passions often break our hearts. And they can seem like an overwhelming burden to bear."
(pg. 22)

The sadness and anger that abortion stirs in my heart is simply overwhelming.
It makes me cry.
It makes me want to pound my fist on the table.
There are nights when I cannot sleep because the burden on my heart is just too heavy.
There is a fire burning in my heart that will not be quenched.
I want to do something about this. I have to.

Dictionary.com defines passion as "any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate."

I hate abortion. I hate what it does to our children. I hate what it does to our women. I hate what it does to our families. I hate what it does to our society. I hate what it does to my country.

So why can't I shut up about abortion?

Because I can't help but wonder how many tiny dancers are missing from the classes that I teach...
how many little servant's hearts are missing from the children's ministry at church...
how many friendships I missed out on because their lives were cut short...
how many women I pass by are weighed down by the guilt of the secret they carry.

I picture two little eyes begging me, pleading with me not to let him die...
I see two little hands outstretched to mine...
I hear one little voice that is about to be silenced forever...
I feel his blood on my hands.

So I keep posting.
And I keep hoping that one day this terrifying practice will not exist.
And I keep praying (though not half as much as I should).
And I keep fighting with the hope that I may save even one life.

Because if I won't be their voice, then who will?