For the 41st Anniversary of Roe v Wade I wanted to post a short story I wrote several years ago about abortion.
“For every soul, there is a guardian watching it.” The Koran
“For he commands his angels with regard to you, to guard you wherever you go.” Psalm 91:11
From the moment I was conceived I could hear him singing to me. Not that I had ears to hear or eyes to see nor could I feel, for I was only but cells miraculously splitting and dividing, knitting and becoming who I would eventually be. But I was a soul, round, buoyant and filled with the light of heavenly love. I could sense him with me fluttering joy, vibrating with song, a loving choir of one. He whispered to me of who I would one day be; that he would be with me always, watching out for me, enlightening me, guiding me, never leaving me.
His name, though I suppose I should point out that angels really have no gender, was Piccarda. He told me that for 100 years he had been training to be a guardian angel and that for the past 10 years he had known he would be my angel and had been learning all about me. He learned what kind of person I would become, what my strengths and what my weaknesses would be. He knew my gifts, what God had specifically blessed me with to live a purposeful life on earth to do His will. He learned what he needed to do to keep me on the right path, what would help me and what wouldn’t.
He was so ecstatic about his position as my guardian I could feel him glow with joy. He said he could not wait until I was conceived, and told me once it happened and he was given the word he was even happier than he could have ever imagined. Now that he was with me he was so filled with such pure, spiritual, charitable love at times he couldn’t contain himself and I could sense lightning shoot from his eyes and mouth as he sang. When he wasn’t conversing with me I could hear his music, his praise and worship of God almighty and I danced in the womb.
He told me that I could have this close friendship with him, only hear and sense him with me, while I was in the womb, that once I was born he would still be with me at all times, but that I would not be able to see or hear him, that unless someone told me I had a guardian angel I wouldn’t even know he was there. He said the closest thing to an angel that would be close to me during life would be my mother. He said he would show himself to me again when I died, and if I was a good person and lived a good life on earth serving God and serving others he would take me to see God in heaven.
He told me while he was always with me on earth he could also always gaze on God’s gloriously beautiful face. I found this amazing and I asked him if I too could see God now, but he just smiled and said, ‘One day, my child.’ I asked him questions about God and heaven, what it was like. He smiled again and told me he couldn’t do it justice with mere human words. It was beauty beyond compare.
I asked him about other angels and he explained their hierarchy. I asked him if he was near the top and he laughed and said no, he was on the lowest level, below the archangels. I asked if he was not sad to be on this level and he smiled, shook his golden curls and said, “No, I am not dissatisfied with where I am, no one in heaven is, it’s all pleasing and all can see and feel the glory of God reigning down on them with love.”
Since I was in my mother’s womb I could also hear my mother’s guardian angel talk to Piccarda, though I never did learn his name. My favorite memory was when they sang in harmony. To be surrounded by these two angelic beings as they expressed their wondrous joy in song was ecstasy. Their wings would flutter in percussion and I sensed more angels elsewhere joining in. I believed when this happened whatever was going on outside my embryonic home was in tune with God’s will and they were celebrating, though I could have been wrong, they could have just being singing because it was what they did.
As time progressed Piccarda told me how I grew, at what stage I had fingers and toes and how my brain was developing. At each stage of development he sung a new song as he told me about my progress. This filled me with such bliss. I could feel myself becoming more as the weeks went on, but to hear him explain it with such awe in his voice was amazing, made me feel like I was fearfully and wonderfully made.
He told me that I was important to the world that each person created has a place and a purpose and that it didn’t matter how big or small each soul’s job was, we were all important. Each person affected another with what they did. He told me that because I was such a kind soul that at the age of eight I would befriend a little girl named Marie Clare. All the other little girls at school would think she was odd and would mock and treat her with contempt, but I would find something about her interesting and I would make her my best friend.
He told me that at the age of twelve I would save her life. It would be such a simple thing; I would grab her hand and pull her to me, stopping her from stepping out in traffic and getting hit and killed by a car. He said we would giggle at the car as it blared its horn, and though it will not seem like such a big thing to us at the time in the grand scheme of things it will be huge. For he told me, that if I did not befriend her four years earlier she would definitely step out without looking, and be killed.
He told me she was very important. She would become a scientist and be part of a team that would find the cure for a very deadly virus. Without her on this team they would not come up with the solution and hundreds of thousands would die.
“Really? That’s amazing. I can’t wait to meet her.” Then I asked, “Besides that who do I become?”
“You will go to school and become a teacher and help many inner city children learn to read. You will give them hope. Because you are such a beautiful compassionate person you will fill them with the desire to overcome, endure, and make something of themselves. You will also volunteer for many things, but most importantly you will start shelters that help pregnant women in need,” he sang.
“Will I have a family of my own?” I asked.
I could feel him smile and flutter his wings, “Yes, a loving husband and five beautiful children. But remember, life will not always be easy. I will be with you to help you, guide you and get you through.”
Time with Piccarda was so beautiful, it seemed to float by. He taught me to sing and told me I would one day have a beautiful voice and would eventually sing in tongues, just like the angels. This made me sing even more and I swore at times I could feel my mother’s hand press in on me as I sang to her, to us, to life.
But then one day I could sense something was wrong. Piccarda was not singing like he normally did. I sensed him discussing something with my mother’s angel, but I could not make out the words, it did not sound good, though. They did not sound like they normally did, they sounded upset and even worried.
Piccarda bellowed loud enough for me to hear, “Try to make her stop!”
And I heard my mother’s distraught angel cry out, “I have tried four times before, but she does not listen to any of my pleadings. I’ve tried everything! She still does this horrendous thing! She believes it’s a right! That’s its good!”
“How can she think this?!” Piccarda cried.
“This is the time of the great deception; many believe it is the right thing.”
“Do they not know that it is evil, an abomination in God’s eyes?”
“They see good as bad, and bad as good!”
“Lord, have mercy!”
I tried to get him to tell me what was happening, but he would not. After a while I felt him press himself around me, moaning, crying, as he sang the saddest song. I shivered.
A short time later I felt myself being pulled. I heard Piccarda scream, crying out to God, telling me he was sorry, he could do nothing. I panicked and thrashed, but I was so small.
It felt too early, I knew I still needed more time to grow, but I was being pulled out of my mother. Cold, my body dangled and then a sharp stabbing pain pierced the back of my skull right above my neck. I reached out and grabbed something with my tiny hand, it shook me off, inserted something into the back of my head. Sucking sounds, a violent pulling sensation… and screaming pain.
Then…. light. Peace. I floated above it all. I could see my lifeless pale body. One eye wide open, not seeing…. Most disturbing …I saw my collapsed skull…. My brains and all that blood in a cold medal pan. My mother shivering and crying while the nurse moved about like it was nothing.
I could see Piccarda look up at me crying lightning bolts of blue tears, his wings outstretched, his arms reached up to the heavens. He bellowed a tragic song, shaking his head. He beckoned me and I drifted down, a ball of light, into his outstretched arms.
A quick black movement and I was almost knocked out of his arms. I could taste and see the red sulfurous stench exude out from the pores of the slick leather creature. Bat-like, he laughed and growled at me as Piccarda clutched me to his feathery chest.
“You will not get this one!” Piccarda bellowed, “You know better, you do not get the innocent!”
The fiend laughed and hissed, mocking Piccarda, flapping about us. Piccarda drew his sword in a flash of lightning and the demon disappeared with a terrified cry.
“Who was that?” I shivered.
“Do not fear him; he will not take you,” then he turned to the other angel, my mother’s angel who stood weeping at my mother’s side, “Why do they come here?”
He lifted his sad heavy head, tear streaming down his face in despair, “This is their domain. They are bolder now that this is done so often, they come to threaten and mock, they enjoy watching our pain and sorrow. This is my fifth time with her here. She will not listen to me. She has fallen and will only turn her ear to him.”
I looked over and saw a large, slimy, terrifying, black creature caressing her face, whispering in her ear, turning aside and snickering at her gullibility.
“I am so sorry,” my angel consoled my mother’s angel.
“Do not feel sorry for me, have pity on him, for he has endured his charges horrendous sins for decades. Hundreds of thousands of babies aborted by the hands of the one he was sent to guard.” He pointed to the abortionist’s angel.
Over on the floor at the abortionist’s feet, a desperately pathetic, ragged angel sat pulling feathers out of his dirty bleeding wings; a hollow look engulfed his eyes.
Above both of them black stench swirled about huge, growing, beating, laughing. Demons of many shapes and sizes all swooped in, swam through the ooze then lit off, cackling with joy.
“Moloch again, enjoying the human sacrifice of children,” the angel wept.
I shuddered uncontrollably, hid in Piccarda’s wings and whimpered.
“I cannot stay here any longer,” Piccarda nodded and left the other behind weeping over his charge, my mother, who stared blankly at the wall nodding at nothing.
Piccarda hugged me to him and sang as we sailed away from the clinic that was filled with evil and death, “I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay, I am with you,” I reassure him.
“But Marie Clare, the cure, your family, the students…,” he sang of sorrows, of a life lost, of many lives lost, of a changed future.
“After what I have glimpsed, I would rather not go to that place anyway. If that is how they treat their children, destroying gifts from God, I would rather just fly to heaven.”
Up we flew into the peace of the blue skied heavens, while below the earth shook, moaned and stewed in the black acrid stench of her sin.
“You shall not offer any of your offspring to be immolated to Molech, thus profaning the name of your God.” Leviticus 18:21
“But better off than both is the yet unborn, who has not seen the wicked work that is done under the sun.” Ecclesiastes 4:3