This Woman

I’m a fighter. I have defeated many enemies; I have more to slay.

I have deflected criticism
with a shield of my God-given identity.

I have dismissed the face of scorn
with His countenance.

I have resisted isolation
with the vulnerability of connection.

Still I battle on. There are more demons to slay.

I am bound
by the need to control my circumstances.

I cower
before the fear of loss.

I bow
to the compulsive desire of the flesh.

From my knees, I admit defeat to my King. And yet I rise up, renewed and restored through His covenant of peace. I have rallied, and I’m ready for battle.

I’m a fighter. I have defeated many enemies; I have more to slay.

When the wicked advance against me to devour me, it is my enemies and foes who will stumble and fall. Though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then I will be confident.
Psalm 27:2-3

When Delaney was about 15 years old she asked me, “What is your number one regret?” 

I froze momentarily, and then my thoughts began to whirl.  I couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Someday I knew I would have to, but not then.

There were a lot of things in my life to regret.  During my high school years, my parents’ divorce and my father’s abandonment left me feeling lost and alone.  I have regrets from those years. After graduation, I moved on to college with a broken heart and a broken spirit, and as I pushed forward for the next several years, I made many foolish choices. I regret some of those.  Later I married, and had two amazing children, incredible blessings from God. But at the time my daughter asked me this, my husband and I were separated and my marriage was failing. I imagined that she was concerned that I regretted my marriage, and that if I regretted my marriage, I regretted my children. 

In that moment, I realized that Delaney’s question was really a bid for reassurance that I loved her. That I would not leave her. That I valued her. Somehow I dodged revealing my number one regret, and turned my attention to her immediate need of parental love. 

But I knew that someday I would need to tell her. 

A few years later, my husband and I agreed to end our marriage, and in the following months I began a new chapter in my life. Through all of the pain, the disappointment, and the grieving, I began to experience a renewal, a time of rebirth.  I began peeling back the layers of deceit and cover-ups, revealing truth about who I am, and about how God sees me. I committed my life to pursuing truth and transparency, even when the truth is unattractive, and the transparency makes me cry.

 With all of this revelation in my life, I knew it was time to tell Delaney about my number one regret.  I spent months in prayer, in preparation for this. I was scared. My relationship with my daughter was solid, but what if this regret was the one thing that drove an eternal wedge between us?  What if she couldn’t forgive me for choice I had made?

Delaney came home from work one Friday afternoon and found me on the back porch reading.  As she settled in across from me, I recognized the opportunity and I began. “A few years ago, you asked me what my number one regret was. At the time I couldn’t tell you the truth, but today I want to tell you my number one regret.”

 I hesitated, and as she had years before, she looked at me expectantly.  “Remember the baby I lost when you were 6 years old?”

 She nodded.  Of course she remembered.  Although we rarely spoke of it, from time to time she would mention it, tentatively, because I never encouraged her to talk about it.  She told me that she felt like she was never allowed to mention the baby, and she asked me if it had been a boy or a girl. It had been too early to know, I told her—I was only 9 or 10 weeks pregnant—but I thought of him as a boy, and wanted to name him David after my father. Or maybe David Andrew, and call him Drew.  

I paused, remembering for a moment. The pregnancy had not been planned, and I was scared.  My marriage was emotionally destructive, and the thought of bringing another child into it was overwhelming.  Years earlier, my husband had threatened to take the kids and leave, and I lived with the fear that he would, and that I would have to fight to get them back. I was scared to bring another child into my troubled home.   

I continued.  “I aborted that baby.”  I paused again, and assessed her face, searching for a sign of horror.  Of anger. Of disgust or hatred. But her face was soft, unoffended, so I went on. “I am so sorry for what I did, for taking away the opportunity for you to have a younger brother or sister. I regretted it even before I went through with it.  I regret not allowing God to control my life and my decisions. I regret the joy I have lost. I regret that I have had to lie to you for so many years.” I paused, and then, “I hope you will forgive me.”

 I could see she was emotional, her face open and her eyes compassionate. But I did not expect her response, and it hit me like a flood.  She said, “I can’t believe you had to go through this all these years, all alone, Mamma.” Her tears spilled over, and she put her arms around me, as we both cried together for a long time.  She asked question after question, and for the first time ever I talked with my daughter about the baby I aborted, about the grief and guilt I carried for having destroyed her younger sibling.  We talked about when Drew’s due date had been, how old Drew would have been. We talked about how he might have changed the dynamic of our family. We talked about what heaven will be like, and how we will get to spend eternity restored as a family unit. 

I carry the memory of that afternoon in my heart, and the moment of the compassion and forgiveness Delaney extended to me, the Christlike response that came straight from her gut: “I can’t believe you had to go through this alone, Mama.”  A moment of grace.

A friend recently shared with me that young soldiers in ancient Sparta were paired with veteran warriors whose job it was to mentor and build the inexperienced apprentice into a seasoned warrior in their own right. Even in combat, they were never apart. The young fighter in front, swinging the sword and fighting the battle, the veteran right behind him, hand on his shoulder and pushing him forward, using his own battle-tested experience to tell the apprentice when to parry, when to jab, and when to press the attack. The two made a formidable foe.

As I contemplated this, my thoughts turned to the women in my life who have had their hand on my shoulder, their forearm pressed into my back, urging me forward as I have battled. Melissa, who opened my eyes to the emotional weight that was destroying me. Sarah, who unveiled truth that was obscured by the lies I believed. Bodil, who reinforced my stance with scripture and prayer. And so many others—encouragers, prayer warriors, counselors—women devoted to the cause of defending their sisters against enemies in close quarters.

We are all in different stages of this journey.  Some are young warriors, lifting their faces for the first time, rising up and beginning to break chains of bondage.  Others are more experienced, encouraging with words of affirmation that bring unity and strength. Our veteran warriors carry battle scars from time on the front lines, and now stand behind these apprentice warriors with hands on their backs pushing them forward, teaching them when to parry, when to jab, when to press the attack.  And as a unit, we make a formidable foe.

Though a man might over power one, two can stand against him.  Moreover a threefold cord cannot be quickly broken. — Ecclesiastes 4:12

My motivation was selfish—I didn’t want to have another child which would root me even more firmly in an emotionally destructive marriage. I adopted the excuse that my child would be in a better place.

But even yet, I wanted the child. I thought if he were a boy, I’d name him David Andrew, and call him Drew.

I drove alone to the clinic, arguing with myself the entire way.  The consequences of keeping Drew seemed insurmountable; the consequences of aborting him felt short-term. In a few minutes it would be over, and I could go on with my life, pretending Drew had never existed.

The clinic was cold and unwelcoming, with harsh lights and gray tile floors. The staff was matter-of-fact as they gave me instructions. In vain I sought warmth and concern in every pair of eyes that turned my way.

I was isolated from everyone who loved me, and from everyone who could love me except for one, and I was seeking to destroy that one.

I moved mechanically through each step of the surgical abortion, screaming inside but silent outside. As I felt the first cramp of the suction, the tears began to flow and my heart began to grieve. I wanted him back. I wanted to be Drew’s mom. I changed my mind.

But it was too late.