Life, Death, and Dominion – Part I: The Journey Begins

June 5, 2008 | Posted by Steve

She had a winning, infectious smile and a loud, cheerful laugh.  You knew she was about to land at a party long before she made her final approach into the room.  Boisterous and bubbly, you could easily believe she hadn’t a care in the world.

I don’t think any of us could really sense the full weight of the sadness riding her shoulders.  She hid her lonely struggle so well none of us knew trouble brewed until it was truly too late.

In the mist of hindsight nearly 30 years removed, most of the details are mercifully murky.  I can’t beat myself up too much about not seeing warning signs along the way because I honestly can’t remember if there were any or not.  Something tells me that I was blissfully ignorant of the soul quietly unraveling in a certain, unseen corner of my world.

Some things about my moment of awakening stand in stark contrast against the accumulated dust of time.

I vividly remember the moment she asked me to help.  I said, “No” without a moment’s hesitation.  No sooner did the words come out of my mouth than I regretted saying them.  What she asked, I knew I could not provide.  What I could provide I knew she would not accept.

She had made up her mind about her plan of action long before she approached me and there was no going back, no room for debate. Even in those pre-Christian days of my youth I knew the particular brand of help she wanted was help I simply couldn’t offer.

For as much as some well intentioned Christians would have the church believe that “compassion” is about meeting people at their point of need with no reservations, the complete message of the Gospel highlights that there were some moral boundaries Jesus dared not cross.  My swift, reflexive response erected a sort of spiritual barbed wire fence I knew neither of us could breech.

I remember her disappearing from school without warning. One moment she was there, the next she was gone.  Her self-imposed exile seemed to last for weeks, though it was probably no more than a few days.  Then, one day, she reappeared quietly, without her characteristic flair for grand entrances.

I remember the first time I saw her again after she returned.  She smiled at me and gave me her signature hug.  It was, however, a weakly detached, “This is what I’m supposed to do” smile and a transparently obligatory embrace.

More than anything about that encounter, though, I remember her eyes.  You don’t forget that look once you see it on a person’s face.  Eyes once lively, bright, and innocent were now worldly, dull, and distant.

In a split second, with the snip of a pair of surgical scissors, the wattage of her radiant smile had been snuffed.

With nothing more than a glance into her eyes I knew she had aborted her baby.

(NEXT:   Part II – “But for the Grace of God…”)

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