Feeling the pressure

When I first meet my husband, Sunday mornings were spent getting his kids up, fed, dressed, and putting them on a retired school bus that belonged to a local church in the community. The church would take this bus full of kids to Sunday school and return them home a couple of hours later, which would mean brief periods of peace and quite for us. On Mothers Day in 1980 I remember the kids getting off that bus and running to me, each with a rose for me. It had been over a year since I had attended church on any regular basis myself. There was something about that moment that touched me, something that reminded me that there was someone outside my circle of friends and family that cared for me that I had turned my back on. I knew that somehow I had to restore my relationship with God.

It wasn’t long after that day that I threw out the idea of us going to church as a family.  My husband had grown up in the church just like I had, so it didn’t take too big of a push to make the decision to start spending Sunday mornings as a family going to church.

We made the choice to go to the church I had been attending previously with my parents and brother (the one that was not willing to marry us a few months earlier), but now as a complete family they welcomed us with open arms. When the delivery of my first son drew close they held a huge shower for me, will piles of things I would need for a baby, including a dozen beautiful homemade blankets. This new church family was very special to us, but they could never know the shame I carried around with me from the abortion. Would they still be so warm and welcoming if they knew?  I asked for God for forgiveness, but I wasn’t prepared to receive that forgiveness back then, and I was far from being at a point that I could be public with it either.

We remained at that little church for over four years until the economy of the time forced a job loss and relocation to Oregon for our little family.

We managed to find new churches when we moved, but once again I could only allow people to get just so close to me.  I would skim over the details of how we meet, and how we got together.  We would joke about the fact that he married the babysitter, but we never told people what really happened back then. I would build friendships with ladies in the church, but none really knew what was hidden on my underbelly.

In the early 80’s we began to hear the cry out from the churches in general against abortion, and the condemnation of those involved in it. It seemed that at every turn the news reported another rally or clinic bombing. On several occasions through the churches we were asked to participate with rallies, including one in downtown Portland, everyone holding hands across the bridges against Abortion. Could I go; could I stand there with our friends against something that I participated in? I could only make my excuses, previous engagements, etc, and avoid the event all together.

These events seem to only seem to further cement me in my guilt, shame and seclusion.  Sometimes it would cripple me to tears on the couch, the fear of them knowing, they would never do what I had done.