|
In this issue...
|
 |
By Brenda Morrow
As I sit in front of my classroom to teach, I survey my charming, challenging class—those precious twenty children with beautiful faces and minds that love to learn. They are quick to laugh, full of wonder and discovery, brimming with creativity, humor, and unlimited possibilities. These children who sit before me are the hope of the future.
I see Katy, who is a brilliant reader, Lance and Tyrone, who are incredible at calculations, and Hector, who has the most beautiful brown eyes I've ever seen. I see Ben, who is a class clown, Juanita, who rarely misses one word on a spelling test, Maribel, who has a smile that warms up a room. Valerie, Nathaniel, and Elizabeth love to write stories while Ryan, Marshall, and Peter John live for football at recess. Shu Chin is just learning English and delights everyone by writing their names in Chinese. Francisco writes beautiful poetry, Daniel loves to sing, Harriet Mae is a beautiful artist, Jenny is a born actress, Ivan has the most beautiful penmanship in the class, and Yvonne is everyone's friend. With their smiles and their heartaches, their successes and their struggles, these children make up my class—all twenty of them.
But six are missing. Six students are not sitting with the others. Six students are not learning, not laughing, not playing, not growing with the others.
Where is she—that beautiful one with the big blue eyes, the freckles, and the long brown braids? Where is she—the one who will never giggle with friends at a slumber party, daydream about boys, and paint her fingernails a nauseating shade of pink? Where is she? She is not here.
Where is he—that tall boy with the black hair—the one who will never know he can run faster than the wind, beat everyone at freeze tag, and throw a football with such grace and ease, it seems to float into the hands of its waiting receiver? Where is he? He is not here.
Where is she—that skinny girl with the curly hair and the beautiful brown skin? The one who will never win a spelling bee, delight in finishing a paint-by-number picture of bunny rabbits and teddy bears, win first place in the back stroke at a swim meet, or ride a horse through the countryside. Where is she? She is not here.
Where is she—that plump, shy little girl with the beautiful ivory skin? The one who won't spend hours struggling with her multiplication facts or cry over a lost kitten. The one who will never sing in front of an audience, wait for the tooth fairy, or laugh with her little sister over a silly cartoon. Where is she? She is not here.
SIX STUDENTS
ARE NOT LEARNING,
NOT LAUGHING,
NOT PLAYING,
NOT GROWING
WITH THE OTHERS.
|
|
|
|
Where is he—the frightened little boy with the big eyes? The one who will never lay his fingers on the piano to make his grandmother joyfully weep, who will never ice skate with his friends, race with his dog, or hit a homerun through the neighbor's window. Where is he? He is not here.
Where is she—the vivacious little girl with the beautiful laugh and the dazzling face that causes people to stop and just look at her? The one who will never learn French, write beautiful stories, dance with the grace of a prima ballerina, squeal over a beautiful new doll waiting under the Christmas tree, or wear bright lime green Band-Aids® on her skinned knees. Where is she? She is not here.
None of them is here. These six missing students will never go on a field trip with their class. They will never lie in freshly mowed grass, pick wild flowers, pet a puppy, touch a frog, laugh, cry, or dream. They are not here. They never were here.
These six children were aborted—each one of them. They had no chance at life. They never were able to know their gifts and talents. They were never allowed the opportunity to fulfill their potentials. They would never be able to become a dancer, a basketball player, a mom, a teacher, an architect, a minister, a gardener, or a senator. The world will never know the treasures that will never be discovered, the futures that never will be completed, the stories that will never be written, the truths that will never be told, and the grandchildren that will never be born.
These six children, and millions like them, are gone. They were destroyed by the hands of their own mothers—overwhelmed by unbelievable confusion, fear, trials, lies, or most maniacally, drowning in apathy. Their mothers, the ones who should have loved them most, ended these children's lives before they began.
Do they miss their unborn children that are lost to the world forever? Are their problems now worse instead of better? How sad for these disillusioned women; what a burden they bear, the impossible weight lifted only by the grace and mercy of Jesus' forgiving hand.
Yet we are left with the emptiness of their absence, the sadness of not knowing them, the empty anguish of not being blessed by them. Their nameless faces, their unspoken words, their unheard laughter, and their untouched gifts float around the classroom. I will never teach them, I will never know them.
I sit in front of my class and think about the six who are absent this year, another five or six next year. I miss them all as I think of them. And I cry.
| Brenda Morrow has been a teacher for 24 years and married for 24 years. She is the proud parent of one stepson and has one beloved grandson. She can be reached at BrenMor1@aol.com. |
|
