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By Robin Eldenburg
I remember the generic brick building. It stood there wedged between stores and office buildings. There were no lines of people waving signs in my face or protesting, something I had envisioned the night before as I lay in bed. I simply got out of the car and numbly walked to the front door.
 As I nervously entered the clinic, I noticed the diverse group of people sitting in the waiting room. Some were older, almost grandma-like, while others were middle-aged. The most evident thing to me was that I appeared to be the youngest in the room. For that reason I became self-conscious, feeling as if they were holding me under a microscope, trying to figure out how I ended up here.
I noticed a woman in the corner of the room who seemed almost as uncomfortable as I was. She stood out because there was a man sitting next to her. Men were the minority here. The look on his face seemed to be saying, "Couldn't you have done this alone and not wasted my time?"
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THE DAY I WALKED
OUT OF THAT ABORTION
CLINIC WITH MY BABY
STILL SAFE INSIDE OF ME,
I DIDN'T FULLY REALIZE
THE MAGNITUDE OF THE
MIRACLE GOD HAD
JUST PERFORMED BEFORE
MY EYES.
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My head was spinning as I tried to look at everyone in the room. So why were they here? All of a sudden I realized that it wasn't they who were here; it was us. We were the same, all in our own personal form of desperation. Despair—the complete loss or absence of hope; to be without hope. Was I in despair? Had I lost all hope? Desperation—a state of despair that results from reckless behavior. I tried to pull my thoughts together and compose myself to reflect maturity.
Sitting there I remember being cold and trying to steady my hands, holding on to the Parmesan cheese container I had taken from the Pizza Hut the night before. It was the only thing my 16-year-old mind could come up with to transport this disgusting urine specimen. The nurse called my name. She held out her hand and said, "Just the specimen, please." She seemed to be amused by my choice of containers and smiled just enough to let me know that she pitied me. In retrospect I know she wasn't thinking of me at all; this was just her job.
I returned to my seat, and it hit me again—I am here. I am in one of those places, the places where other people go, the place where I could never imagine being, a place that I had only seen on the news. I was one of them, one of those people.
When the nurse called my name a second time, the door to the hallway opened. The thud of the door closing behind me jolted my body into a consciousness that I had not felt all day. It seemed as if the building that had been so large in the beginning was becoming smaller. As I entered the exam room and lay down on the bed, I began to feel as if there wasn't enough oxygen in this tiny, tomb-like room. I closed my eyes and breathed in a steady rhythm. The last thing I wanted to do was to make these women think I was immature.
The harshness of the ultrasound gel on my yet-to-protrude belly was another shock to my fragile mental state. The nurse looked at the screen. I watched her face as she looked back and forth. Her face seemed stern, cold, and somewhat confused. She had yet to say a single word to me. Suddenly out of nowhere she asked, "How far along did you say you were?"
As I opened my mouth to speak, my voice was trembling. Choking back tears I responded, "I got pregnant on May 11." I knew that wasn't what she asked, but that's all I could remember. Weeks, how many weeks? I couldn't remember what they had told me the week before. All I knew was when it happened. Annoyed, she looked at a calendar to calculate the weeks, then turned and exited the room.
I lay there alone. The big blob of jelly on my stomach added to the chill that was inside me. Tears began to roll down the side of my face. I turned to find something to wipe away the evidence of my immaturity, and then I saw her. There she was, my tiny baby on the screen staring me in the face. I hadn't allowed her to be real, but now there she was. I was mesmerized by the hypnotic effect of this precious heartbeat. I began to sob uncontrollably because I realized that I had no power in me to resist what was about to happen. They were going to come back and take this baby out of me. I wish I could tell you that I found the strength to get up and walk out of there; I couldn't. I continued in my human strength to lie there, powerless.
Miracle—an extraordinary and welcome event attributed to a divine agency; a remarkable and very welcome occurrence; an outstanding example, specimen, or achievement.
When the nurse entered, she was accompanied by a doctor. A feeling of panic began to take over as I realized what was about to happen. He glanced at the screen and then at me. "How many weeks?" The nurse answered, looking at me, "She says 10; my measurements say at least 15." With a piercing look of accusation, they informed me that this clinic performed abortions only up to the 12th week of pregnancy, and they didn't appreciate me trying to deceive them into a procedure that would be illegal for them to do.
My mind began to race, frantically trying to understand what they were saying. Fifteen, that's not possible. The date was July 22. I knew without a doubt that I had become pregnant on May 11. It was my first time; there was no mistake. Before I could put my thoughts together, they had sent me out the door with pamphlets for another facility that specialized in late term abortions.
I left in tears. I wish I could tell you they were tears of joy, and although some represented relief, the majority represented fear—the fear of what would happen next and where this road would take my baby and me.
Exactly 25 weeks later in my 36th week of pregnancy, I gave birth to my precious baby girl, Kirby Brianne. She weighed 7 lbs., 14 oz., and was absolutely perfect, just the way God had planned her to be. According to the abortion clinic's measurements, I would have been 41 weeks along at delivery, a little over-due! Praise God for His ability to intervene in our circumstances when we cannot find the strength to stand up on our own.
"And I have put My words in your mouth; I have covered you with the shadow of My hand" (Isaiah 51:16).
God covered her with the shadow of His hand, saving not only her life, but mine also. He has continued to gift her with words that have been a lifesaver to her mother in times of turmoil. He has hidden her from adversity when necessary, and I have had the awesome privilege of watching Him as He continues to refine her, molding her into a well-polished vessel.
Her life is an example of the miracles God continues to perform in this world every day. The day I walked out of that abortion clinic with my baby still safe inside of me, I didn't fully realize the magnitude of the miracle God had just performed. It has taken years for me to see exactly how incredible the events of that day were. His hand was covering her and me all the way through and continues to do the same today.
After her birth, everything hasn't been perfect. There has been a tremendous amount of good times, but there has also been an avalanche of traumas that have rolled through our lives. The common factor in these situations, the good and bad, is that God continues to supply us with the strength that we need.
Today, as I look at my precious girl who is now almost 20 years old, I realize that I am one of "those people" that God sent His precious Son to die for, the imperfect ones.
"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23). That "all" refers to "those people"—you and me.
| Robin Eldenburg lives in Durant, Oklahoma with her two children Kirby, 20 and Eric, 15. She serves on the Board of Directors for The Pregnancy Center of Bryan County. You may contact her by e-mail at reldenburg@yahoo.com. |
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