Yesterday, I attended the Texas Rally for Life at the state capital in Austin. This was my second march to attend and it was so good to be there. It's always wonderful to gather with people from all across the state, who want to show their passion for helping children in the womb, and their mothers and fathers.
As we came up Congress Street and neared the capital grounds, it became clear that we were not the only people who had gathered around this issue of life and death. Outside the gates were a number of protesters, waving signs about choice and rights and bodies and Wendy and hangers. The majority of them were yelling and chanting. They were angry.
So what did those of us marching do?
There were multiple reactions. A number of us were praying the rosary, and we just prayed louder. There was one man that spoke to those opposing us, asking God to be with them and bless them. Some of us fell silent and looked on. I did this for part of the time, and was praying for those who displayed such anger towards us. And then the rest of the crowd started chanting "Pro-Life" back, fighting the noise with noise.
I must admit that I was relieved to walk through the gates and move up towards the capital, away from all the shouting. I was very shaken, at all the hatred and contempt that had just been directed towards us. I was unsettled and disheartened, because in the middle of all that shouting, no dialogue had taken place. There were no bridges built; there was no sense of understanding.
These emotions settled in me, as I stood waiting for the speakers to take the mic. I was restless until the second to last speaker told her story. Her name was Aston Jimenez and I plan to write her a letter this week. She moved me to tears. She spoke the truth, honest and humble, and reminded me of why I was standing there, in Austin with thousands of other pro-life men and women.
She told us all about the summer before her freshmen year of college, when she sought out a chemical abortion. She was scared and felt alone. No one informed her of what this would do to her. Nobody showed her a picture of her baby. She said they didn't even ask her if she wanted to see the sonogram. Nobody told her the extent of what that pill would do to her body the night she took it. She said she lost so much blood and was in so much pain, she thought she was going to black out. Nobody told her that she would have to be the one to dispose of her baby. She did all of this alone, in her dorm room, on her first day of college.
And she told us of the panic attacks she had in the days to come, and about the depression she faced, and about how years of her life were tainted by her decision to have that abortion. She was so wounded by that choice, that now she spends her life counseling women who have had abortions, trying to help them arrive at the healing she sought out. She speaks out now and testifies about her tragic experience, to protect women, to ensure their safety, and to prevent them from suffering the horrible things she did.
She brought peace back to me. Through her words, I was reminded, that we were all there to bring truth and healing and hope and safety to women, first and foremost to the many women who had just shouted at us as we'd walked to the capitol.
Those who are pro-life speak for children in the womb who cannot speak for themselves. And we speak for the families, for fathers who live in remorse over their lost children. And we speak for wounds of women, wounds from abortion that tarnish and damage the lives of the women themselves.
What we all need to come to realize, is that many of those who yell at us, and protest us, and hold hatred for us, are speaking from their own wounds. Through their shouting, they are making their wounds heard. It is a cry of anguish and frustration and resentment, and we need to receive it without resounding it. We need to receive it, and offer compassion, because as long as there's yelling, there cannot be healing. For healing and consolation to come, it requires that one actually be heard, that their story be told, that truth be brought to them.
We have to continue to take a stand, to take a stand in love. We have to speak, not shout. We have to share the truth that we have, because it sets free and brings peace. We have to. We have to. It is for the sake of the unborn and our families, and for the women, women that need to hear the truth, and need to know that healing is waiting for them, and need to know that abortion wounds, and need to know that they are loved.
As we came up Congress Street and neared the capital grounds, it became clear that we were not the only people who had gathered around this issue of life and death. Outside the gates were a number of protesters, waving signs about choice and rights and bodies and Wendy and hangers. The majority of them were yelling and chanting. They were angry.
So what did those of us marching do?
There were multiple reactions. A number of us were praying the rosary, and we just prayed louder. There was one man that spoke to those opposing us, asking God to be with them and bless them. Some of us fell silent and looked on. I did this for part of the time, and was praying for those who displayed such anger towards us. And then the rest of the crowd started chanting "Pro-Life" back, fighting the noise with noise.
I must admit that I was relieved to walk through the gates and move up towards the capital, away from all the shouting. I was very shaken, at all the hatred and contempt that had just been directed towards us. I was unsettled and disheartened, because in the middle of all that shouting, no dialogue had taken place. There were no bridges built; there was no sense of understanding.
These emotions settled in me, as I stood waiting for the speakers to take the mic. I was restless until the second to last speaker told her story. Her name was Aston Jimenez and I plan to write her a letter this week. She moved me to tears. She spoke the truth, honest and humble, and reminded me of why I was standing there, in Austin with thousands of other pro-life men and women.
She told us all about the summer before her freshmen year of college, when she sought out a chemical abortion. She was scared and felt alone. No one informed her of what this would do to her. Nobody showed her a picture of her baby. She said they didn't even ask her if she wanted to see the sonogram. Nobody told her the extent of what that pill would do to her body the night she took it. She said she lost so much blood and was in so much pain, she thought she was going to black out. Nobody told her that she would have to be the one to dispose of her baby. She did all of this alone, in her dorm room, on her first day of college.
And she told us of the panic attacks she had in the days to come, and about the depression she faced, and about how years of her life were tainted by her decision to have that abortion. She was so wounded by that choice, that now she spends her life counseling women who have had abortions, trying to help them arrive at the healing she sought out. She speaks out now and testifies about her tragic experience, to protect women, to ensure their safety, and to prevent them from suffering the horrible things she did.
She brought peace back to me. Through her words, I was reminded, that we were all there to bring truth and healing and hope and safety to women, first and foremost to the many women who had just shouted at us as we'd walked to the capitol.
Those who are pro-life speak for children in the womb who cannot speak for themselves. And we speak for the families, for fathers who live in remorse over their lost children. And we speak for wounds of women, wounds from abortion that tarnish and damage the lives of the women themselves.
What we all need to come to realize, is that many of those who yell at us, and protest us, and hold hatred for us, are speaking from their own wounds. Through their shouting, they are making their wounds heard. It is a cry of anguish and frustration and resentment, and we need to receive it without resounding it. We need to receive it, and offer compassion, because as long as there's yelling, there cannot be healing. For healing and consolation to come, it requires that one actually be heard, that their story be told, that truth be brought to them.
We have to continue to take a stand, to take a stand in love. We have to speak, not shout. We have to share the truth that we have, because it sets free and brings peace. We have to. We have to. It is for the sake of the unborn and our families, and for the women, women that need to hear the truth, and need to know that healing is waiting for them, and need to know that abortion wounds, and need to know that they are loved.