What Seems Unforgiveable

What Seems Unforgiveable

This blog post is about the consequences of teenage sex and abortion – it is not intended for young readers.

The following is fiction based on fact. I took a little bit of this and a piece of that from real-life experiences people have shared with me and, wove them into a story. I know women who believe God can never forgive them for choosing abortion – not once – but multiple times. As I write this, I pray they find out they are believing a lie.

As with the characters in Rain Dance , this story is a combination of real-life stories.

We’d like to think abortion is “out there” and not in the church. I invite you to think again.

crying woman

My first experience with sex was awful. A blundering boy and a graceless girl. Together we produced a lot of embarrassment and a little something extra.

I understood the nausea. What we’d done made me sick. The missing period missed me the first month. My mom caught it the second. She was worried and I was terrified. My dad was outraged.

In one moment I went from Daddy’s pride to his shame.

It was legal but there was no way we were going to do this deed in town. No one we knew could know.

If you can imagine, my pro-life family dressed up to go see the out of state doctor who would do the procedure. Anyone looking at us would have thought we were on our way to church or out to eat.

Instead, we were on our way to eliminate my problem. I prayed with the removal of my trouble, the shame would vanish.

It didn’t.

I had nightmares, lost weight, and my grades slipped. Mom tried to comfort me and Dad drew farther away. He no longer looked me in the eye and I translated that to mean, “I can’t stand the sight of you.”

A voice in my heart told me I’d committed the unforgivable sin. I pictured God looking away from me just like my daddy did.

The boy begged me to tell him what was wrong. We comforted each other as best we could by telling each other we were too young to parent a child and that it was only a piece of tissue not a viable human being. We both cried. It was his baby too. But we did our best to buy the lie.

He decided we should stop seeing each other.

Daddy still wouldn’t look at me and the emptiness inside me grew.

I tried to fill it with what I thought I was missing. Love. Only this time I was going to be smart. I got a little help from the local Planned Parenthood. I took my pill faithfully each morning and carried around extra protection in my purse just in case the cute guy of the week took a second look.

One did. He was older, handsome, and smart and, he knew his way around a girl’s body.

To regain my parent’s trust I worked hard and my grades climbed back up to straight-A status. I exercised and ate right. I went to Sunday school, church, and youth group meetings. So did he. It’s expected of a preacher’s son.

We were discreet and careful. Very careful but not careful enough.

I couldn’t face my dad again, so we went to his.

With all the right connections I was again chauffeured to an out of town women’s clinic.

He went away to seminary with his daddy’s blessing. I went deep into depression with my daddy’s disapproval.

I started to hate myself and God.

While my body recovered I kept my grief tightly undercover, I wondered what I’d do now that I was supposed to be grown up. I’d always wanted to teach Kindergarten but no  longer had any interest in connecting with small children.

I decided I’d become a travel agent and do my best to see the world. I completed the courses with high marks, trained, and joined a company who specialized in arranging and traveling with groups interested in Italy, France, and Germany. I learned the languages, ate the most wonderful foods, drank the best wine, and wore designer clothes. I kept my focus narrowly on me and made sure I got everything I wanted.

I’d stopped going home years ago but, sometime in July, while standing in a hotel room somewhere, I got homesick. I called and promised I’d be home for Christmas. I wanted to feel Mom’s touch, hear Dad’s laugh, eat rosettes sprinkled with powdered sugar, and open presents wrapped in red and green paper. I wanted to see the old tree ornaments, watch White Christmas, and sleep in my old bed.

Mom was elated. Her only baby was coming home. I didn’t ask what Dad thought. I could only hope enough time had passed and he could look at me again. I wanted him to be proud of who I’d become not ashamed of who I was.

I forgot home also meant church. The same old church. The same old pastor.

The building had been updated here and there. The man in the pulpit couldn’t hide his excitement as he introduced the newest member of their growing staff. His son. The father of the second baby I’d never know.

I got through the service in a stupor. I missed the opportunity to escape and found myself urged forward by my mother.

“Hello Pastor, you remember our daughter.”

Both he and his son pasted on their fake smiles and greeted me. I noticed his wedding band. Two little boys who looked just like him pulled him away.

Like father, like son. I wanted to spit in their holy faces.

I thought about encouraging him to start a new support group: Hypocrites Not-So-Anonymous.

On the way home, Mom explained the preacher’s son’s wife had recently been diagnosed with cancer. My mother worried about their circumstances. So much sorrow.

Boo-hoo.

I decided to call him P.S. in my mind – short for Pastor’s son and representing how I saw him; as an add on in the note of my life – a brief after thought.

Back home, we opened boxes wrapped in red and green. Mom made rosettes and we ate them while watching White Christmas. Daddy tried to look me in the eyes and I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn’t looking. I had the feeling he wanted to say something and couldn’t. Neither could I. It was too late and too ugly.

I could no longer stay away. I knew I made the preacher and his son hot under the collar and I wanted to see them cook.

I came home the weekends I could. I looked forward to church and sat in the back apart from my parents. From my chosen pew I could glare at whatever man took the pulpit.

I heard the homosexual sermon and I waited for the pro-life one. No longer a person of prayer, I could only hope I wouldn’t be gone that weekend. No way did I want to miss that one.

I didn’t.

P.S. announced it was Sanctify of Life Sunday. I sat up a little straighter and leaned forward. I dared him in my mind to look at me. He did. He looked scared. Good for him!

The woman he invited to speak got my attention when she said, “I regret my abortion.”

From that moment on, she had me. She knew everything about me except my name.

Hot tears gushed down my cheeks. P.S. watched me from his place up front. Our eyes met just like they once had in the school cafeteria. We no longer shared a sensual secret…ours was a killer.

The woman invited anyone who regretted their abortion to meet her confidentially in a room by the library. Something inside me shattered like a massive glass wall. Every piece cut my heart as it fell. Shame and Regret did their best to hold me back. Embarrassment taunted me and told me to stay put.

My high-heeled feet ran me to the front of the church. I knew if I left the sanctuary, I wouldn’t seek her out. I’d go home and never come return. My enemies would take back their spots in my heart and rebuild the broken wall. I’d be lost in my secret sin forever.

She sat next to me when I slumped into the front pew. My tears had not stopped their flood-like flow. I felt hands on my shoulders, head, and back. Someone held my hands. I heard sobbing and praying.

Three distinct male voices cried out, “Father, forgive me!”

In the now silent church, I raised my head although a gentle hand still rested there. I met the eyes of a woman whose own head was wrapped in a scarf of many colors. Her other hand rested on the head of her husband, PS.

“You know?” I asked.

She nodded.

Three men knelt on the floor around me. I placed my hands on the shoulders of the father and son and my cheek on the head of my dad.

He looked me full in the eyes. “Baby, please forgive me for the abortion. I’m so ashamed of what I did.”

“Oh Daddy!” I whispered and the kissed his cheek.

I experienced the touch of God in my heart as He tenderly washed my filthy wound with His love and forgiveness.

I whispered, “Oh God…forgive us all for what seems unforgivable.”

Until Next Time,

Joy

Almost all of us know a barren woman and whether we know it or  not, we know women who have chosen abortion. Every one of us needs compassion from each other. That was my goal writing Rain Dance. If you’re interested in the book, click on the cover to learn more or to purchase a copy for your Kindle or Kindle App.

Graphic purchased from fotolia.com © yanlev – Fotolia.com

About Joy DeKok

Joy DeKok is a multipublished author. She not only enjoys sharing her writing, but also the writing of friends who write and authors whose writing she enjoys.

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