It’s the babies. Always the babies.  Every time I set up an educational display, it’s the fetal models that draw people to our table like moth to flame. And that was the case at Creation Music Festival, a Christian music event attended by tens of thousands of people each year.

It’s become a predictable pattern.  The babies are spotted from a distance. People approach, touch them, hold them, marvel at them.  A conversation ensues. Information is shared. Stories are told. Many different stories.

Like the woman told to abort her child twenty-four years ago, after a sonogram revealed that her child had no brain.  She refused and instead prayed that a future test would show a different result. It did. Her daughter was born perfectly healthy.

Two different women told me their stories of getting pregnant as teens and being pressured to abort by their families. Despite feeling alone and unsupported by those closest to them, both women refused abortion, choosing open adoption instead. Both have a beautiful, loving relationship with the children who once grew within their bodies. One even shared the picture of her six-year-old biological son who is thriving with his adoptive family.

Over four days, I talked with hundreds of people and listened to dozens of stories. Many young children delighted in holding our babies and posing for pictures. The one group I did not anticipate the babies attracting, however, were those who were post-abortive.

Never before had so many people disclosed to me that they had one or more abortions.  All of them said they silently bore shame and grief for years afterward.

One woman came to our table with her teenage son. She was born into a politically-connected liberal family that counted Faye Wattleton, the former head of Planned Parenthood, as a close friend. Raised to think abortion was no big deal, she had a few.  But she was not at peace.  She suffered. She regretted. She mourned.  She felt that she had been lied to.  It was only through a relationship with Christ, she said, that she finally found forgiveness and peace.  And she wants her son to learn from her journey and be armed with the truth.

Then there was another young woman looking to start a Respect Life ministry in her church, hoping to use some of the literature we had on our table.  She told me that she had an abortion many years ago. Anytime abortion was brought up at church, she would inwardly panic, thinking her body language would reveal to everyone the secret she carried for so long. It was by encountering another post-abortive woman who shared her testimony that she finally got the courage to talk about her abortion. She found healing in a program called Surrendering the Secret. Now she hopes to help others choose life.

On the last day, it was a man that stopped by.  With his long hair, red bandana, and heavily tattooed body,  I could easily imagine him riding his Harley to the festival. He almost walked by, but suddenly turned around. He stared at the babies. “Hard to believe that we even have to tell people they are human beings,” he said. I agreed.

Then he shared his story. When he was a young man, he discovered his wife had an affair with his own brother. She became pregnant. Heartbroken over the dual betrayal, he paid for her abortion.  For many years it haunted and grieved him. He told me he wasn’t always a Christian but is now.  It is how he has found forgiveness, healing, and love.

There were several others who disclosed their abortions. They didn’t have to. They could have walked by.  They could have stopped and not shared that piece of themselves.  But they did stop. Did share.  They want others to know. Not just their woundedness, but their redemption. Not just their hurt, but their hope.

As we enter a post-Roe America, let’s remember that so many have been wounded by abortion. Some are healed. Many are not. They sit a tour tables, in our pews, and on the other side of our computer screens.

Let us love them into the truth. Let us pray for their healing. Let them feel our acceptance, not judgment. Let us be bridges, not walls.

It’s often said that the church is not so much a museum for saints, but a hospital for sinners. Let us say the same for the pro-life movement.

I am quite used to talking about life issues, even debating them with those whose views differ from my own.  I just don’t usually do it in the grocery store. With a soon-to-be 8^th grader.

Yet, there I was, in the coffee aisle, talking big topics with my friend’s grandson, who we’ll call Kevin.

I was delighted to bump into the two of them and chat for a bit. Before saying our goodbyes, Kevin asked me where I worked and what I did.  He listened and then politely informed me that unlike his grandmother and me, he is “pro-choice.”

He went on to explain that a woman who is a victim of rape or incest should not be forced to carry and birth a baby.  Knowing Kevin, I was sure this was coming from a place of compassion. He felt deep sorrow for women enduring such trauma and believed that continuing a pregnancy in those circumstances would only make the situation worse.

I sensed from his pause and steady gaze that he expected me to respond.

I smiled at him, thankful that he was willing to listen.  I gently asked him if he has ever met anyone conceived from rape or from incest.  “No.”

I told him that I have, and that I could never look at them and say they weren’t deserving of life because of the manner in which they were conceived. I pointed out that the perpetrators of such crimes, if caught and convicted get jail time, but the innocent child brought into existence gets a much harsher sentence in abortion: death.

There was much more I could say, especially about whether choosing life over abortion helps women to heal, but left it at that. I could see he was thinking it over. I invited him to reach out to me anytime he has a question and that I would be happy to hear him out and dialogue.

It wasn’t long. A few minutes later, as I worked my way through the meat section, Kevin was back. He had more questions he wanted me to address, eager to hear how I would respond. What about children born into poverty? Or a dire pre-natal diagnosis? What about when the mother’s life is in danger?

For a good 20 minutes we talked. I answered each question while shoppers careened their carts around us. Who knows what bits and pieces were overheard?

I said it was wrong to impose our personal standards of “a worthwhile life” onto others.  Surely, people born poor or with a disability or in foster care are glad to be alive. We should not consider their lives less valuable than ours.

Instead, we should do our best as a society to reduce suffering to the extent that we can rather than eliminate humans who suffer. If we choose to eliminate everyone who might experience suffering at some point in their life, who should live?

With regard to a dire prenatal diagnosis I pointed out that even in this modern age, doctors and tests sometimes are wrong. But even if a diagnosis is correct, does a child not deserve a chance to be born, to be held and loved by his parents, to receive medical intervention, to be treated with compassion and dignity? Why must he be killed in utero?

I also shared that due to modern medical practices, rarely is a pregnant woman’s life in jeopardy, but if that situation does arise, it is usually later in pregnancy.  At that point an abortion is far more threatening to the mother’s life than delivering the child prematurely and striving to save both lives.

We covered several other topics, including death with “dignity.” It was an intense conversation.

To his credit, Kevin listened and nodded, displaying a maturity and civility that seems to be lost on this issue. He never once interrupted me but thoughtfully listened to all I had to offer, sometimes asking follow-up questions.  I again told him to stay in touch and let me know if he wants to talk again. He extended his hand and warmly shook mine, thanking me for my time and information.

As I headed for the dairy section, I marveled at this young man and our exchange, wishing I could replicate the conversation in every supermarket in the country. I don’t know exactly what Kevin believes now about abortion, but I believe to some extent he was enlightened. And his openness was encouraging.

Perhaps this is a good model for all of us. So often we are afraid of talking about abortion for fear of offending, disagreeing, arguing. Let us have the courage to engage with others and the wisdom to have productive, civil discourse that sheds more light than heat. Perhaps in this way, one conversation at a time, we can change minds and hearts and ultimately, the culture.