My 40 Days for Life Experience

"I will never be the same again, I can never return, I've closed the door. I will walk the path, I will run the race, and I will never be the same again." -Hillsong

Sometimes an experience comes along that changes the fabric of who you are as a person. Deep inside. I have recently experienced just such a watershed moment. Nearly three weeks ago, I went to pray outside of an abortion clinic for the first time.
As I got out of my van half a block away, I did not feel anxious or apprehensive, even though I was going into a new situation. I felt like I was born for this moment. I had a sense that this was an important beginning. Goodness knows I had always wanted to do something to help. As I made my way to the sign up sheet for the 40 Days For Life, I saw other prayer volunteers walking up and down the sidewalk praying. A sweet lady with a rosary asked me if I was "going in there" or if I was here to pray. As I signed in and got my sign, she and the others were very helpful. All of a sudden, I looked up into the parking lot of the clinic, saw people coming in and leaving, and the full truth and reality of what I had until then merely known intellectually smacked me in the chest and grabbed me by the throat, leaving me breathless. Women were going in there, in that unassuming brick building, carrying their babies inside them. They came out empty. Those little babies were being murdered almost before my very eyes. Dear God. For the rest of the time, all I could do was hold my sign and cry. Poor little babies. Poor girls who were deceived by this culture of death surrounding us.
What could I do? What in the name of all that is holy could I DO? No one can put back together a torn apart infant; no one can put back together the torn apart heart that I knew these women would have one day, maybe even today. "Dear Jesus, you can do all things. Won't you please look down here upon us, your poor desperate people, and save them?"
How could I possibly love the boyfriends who were shooting the breeze and laughing with the guard while inside their children were ripped from the one place in all this harsh, cold world where they should be safe? How could I possibly love the clinic worker who shouted,"We'll take good care of your daughters when they come to us too."? Jesus, you love them. I want to.
I spent the evening completely immobilized. I lay in my bed all evening, tending to things when I had to, but feeling as if my heart was being squeezed by a giant, invisible fist. Now I know it was. The potter must sometimes crush and squeeze His clay in order to make it softer, and more fit for His purposes. I have been back. I will continue to go back. It is hard, yes, and sometimes I will cry. I know that Jesus weeps over this injustice, and this servant is not above her master. I weep, and I will never be the same again.