By Dave Andrusko
As everyone knows it’s only two more days to Mother’s Day. But if you are a pro-abortionist of a certain stripe who reads NRL News Today posts (and there are more than you think who take a peek), just a mention is enough to infuriate you.
Why? There are probably a hundred reasons—or 59 million. What I do know for sure is that when we celebrate (a word that will make their teeth grind) what our moms have done for us, to many pro-abortionists this is code for “keeping women in their place.”
Even worse (and I do mean worse) they believe to talk about sacrifice serves no purpose other than to limit women, to contract their horizons, to insist that a woman who is not a mother is “defective” (as hyperventilating pro-abortionists often put it). That this bears no resemblance to anything and is more a reflection their own insecurities than anything we have done (or could do) is just more evidence we “don’t get it.”
If I may, I’d like to say a few things about mothers and Mother’s Day, starting with my own mom who died much too young.
She was the oldest of twelve (11 girls and one boy!) and she and her siblings grew up during the depression. Times were very, very tough. Eviction was a constant threat.
My mom gave up a lot to help raise her siblings. Her own mother was widowed at an early age and my mom gave up the chance to go to college to help keep the family together. She sacrificed for us—my six siblings and me. She never complained even though, financially, we often lived on the brink.
My mom taught me how to be a parent. If I am 1/10 as good, I will consider myself a huge success.
Abortion was (as they say) not an issue as the Andrusko kids were growing up. We did have an unplanned teenage pregnancy among my cousins. I was never prouder of my dad than I was for the encouragement and support and love he showered on her.
As I reflect back on the previous two sentences, I realize I was watching…and learning…and internalizing an attitude toward crisis pregnancies and our obligation to help. My dad was unintentionally modeling behavior which I absorbed unsuspectingly.
Likewise to the reality of unborn life. It’s now been over 50 years, but I remember like it was yesterday when my mother asked me to place my hand on her stomach.
I felt my youngest brother move! I’m not sure there ever could have been a chance that I would accidentally wander into the “pro-choice” camp, but there surely was none after that revelation.
We all know the fundamental irony of today’s battle over life. We now know a gazillion times more about what (who) was once an almost invisible passenger: the unborn child. People of my generation could not “know” there really was someone there until roughly midway in the second trimester when the baby started to do some serious squirming.
Now we have real-time, full-color ultrasounds where starting very early we can see the baby–and in unprecedented detail– as she grows. Some of what you see will knock your socks off. And these sonograms are making their way into albums, on refrigerator doors, in countless movies and television programs, and, of course, in advertising.
To which pro-abortionists sniff, so what? None of that counts. The child’s development; our moral obligation to a baby who did not will herself into existence; even her ability to experience unimaginable pain while her life is snuffed out is all beside the point.
It’s the mother’s (excuse me a “woman’s”) right. Which brings us full-circle.
A true parent—mother or father—does not use the language of “rights” as a club to beat their child to death. If the powerlessness of an utterly helpless unborn child does not awaken out conscience, then God help us.
I thank all those moms who do most of the unglamorous but absolutely essentially work of holding families together. I thank them not just the one day a year we officially acknowledge their indispensable contributions, but for all 365.
Happy Mother’s Day to you all, and especially to my own wife, Lisa.
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