Yesterday was the thirty-third anniversary of Roe v. Wade. According to the National Right to Life, over 45 million abortions have been performed in the United States since that day.
I don’t have anything new to say that brilliant minds haven’t already said about that simple and yet most profound of values: the sanctity of human life. I just have a picture.
Over three years ago now, early on in my pregnancy with Jack—eight weeks or so—I thought I was having a miscarriage. We were out of town and I had to wait through the weekend before I could visit the doctor. Those few days were spent crying, praying, and asking God for grace to trust Him.
On Monday morning, I went in for a sonogram with Steve at my side. In what felt like a dream, I laid on the table as the technician spread the jelly on my abdomen and used her equipment to peer into my womb. After a few eternal moments of silence, the woman wordlessly turned the screen so Steve and I could see. There was a little oval shaped body, with a tiny, opaque circle near the head. “See,” the technician pointed, “There’s the heart. It’s beating.”
She printed out a picture for us. On it, next to that little oval shape with that little beating heart, she had typed one word: baby.