I have some issues with various dates in my life. For instance, I get a general feeling of overwhelming sadness in January because that is the month that my grandfather died. But it is also the month I gave birth to my oldest son and my husband's birthday in on the 13th of that month. So, for the most part, January balances out pretty well.
Not so with other months. And unfortunately, these tie directly into January too. For the last 30 years, from mid-August to mid-September, I have experienced a feeling of great loss. For years I couldn't put my finger on it. There were so many reasons why - everything from the end of Summer to the end of a marriage - all fought for my attention - were THEY the reasons for the loss?
It was only about ten years ago that I began to put the pieces together and with the puzzle now complete, I can only grieve at my loss and the supidity that caused it.
As I read the words I wrote five days ago, I have to pause for just a moment. So many things have happened in the last five days that I can't even begin to list them. So I won't. But I will tell you that the sadness I feel at this time every year is because of the great loss of my firstborn child. I was 16, almost 17 and at the time, I felt I had no choice but to terminate my unwanted pregnancy. But my baby WAS wanted, at least in my heart. Unfortunately, the logic that is my curse won out and allowed me to make the biggest mistake I will ever make - seeking an abortion.
You have read my past blogs and know that I have two sons and four grandchildren - all of whom I love dearly. But the child I so selfishly threw away would have been 30 this month. My friend Mary once asked me if I knew what my baby was. I hesitated for a moment - then she said, "what does your gut tell you?" My gut has always told me that my unborn child was a girl - the daughter I always wanted. She then asked me if I had ever given her a name. At the time, I told her no, but while talking with my husband about the conversation I told him that there had always been a name hanging in the air - one I had never used or even thought of using for my kids when I was pregnant and we were picking out names. But this name had always been there - Diana Lyn. Funny it is a reverse of my own name - Linda Diane. But it is a name I always liked and if I had to guess, it would have been her name.
I cannot go back in time and undo what I did. Living with it has been my own private hell. You think at the time that it doesn't matter. You make all sorts of excuses and you invent all sorts of explanations but it all boils down to being selfish. As much as I hate to admit it, that's what it was for me. I didn't want to give up my dreams and I certainly didn't want to hear the words "I told you so" uttered by my family and friends.
This blog is a bit disjointed I know but I still have difficulty sifting though the rubble that is that portion of my life. Little by little, each year, it gets clearer and more focused. This year brings the greatest clarity and for that I have to thank Mary.
In closing I have to say that abortion is still that most secret of sins amongst God's people. I was a strong Christian teenager before I terminated the life of my child and I floundered for years afterward with no one to turn to. Mary has taken this most secret of sins and given it a voice in her ministry In Our Midst. Please take a few minutes and visit her site.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
Where Were You on 9/11?
Five years ago I wasn't a grandmother - I was a newly enrolled college student and mother of a soldier. My son, Ricky, was a member of the 82nd Airborne. It had always been his goal to be a part of the military and well, getting paid to jump out of airplanes and blow things up is every boy's dream come true. Me? Not so much - but I support him.
Ricky had joined the military in a time a relative peace in the world. But five years ago, as I huddled around a computer screen with my classmates, I knew the implications and I dreaded them. The sight of those planes crashing into the World Trade Center brought a chill to my bones and made my heart skip a beat. After the Rangers, Airborne were first in. My son was going to be a floating target.
As I mentioned once before, Ricky didn't go overseas. A jump accident prevented him from going and the frustration in his voice was not pleasant to hear. All his buddies were there while he stayed on the base and fueled aircraft. He had joined the Army to support our country and instead he was stuck in the barracks, unable to do what he had trained to do.
And now for my confession: I was glad and ashamed of it. I had come from a military family, I had uncles who fought in Vietnam and a father who had served on a ship during the Korean War - I had a grandfather who had lived through two World Wars and had tried to enlist both times(too young to enlist in the first, too old in the second). I, myself, had served in the Navy until it became apparent that a birth defect in my knees would not allow me to stay and serve my country. What kind of coward was I?
The worst kind I'm afraid - a mother protecting her son. Not so much a coward but the nurturing part of me won out over the patriotic side. And it made me ashamed to call myself an American. Me, who develops tears at the singing of the Star-Spangled Banner and who proudly led and said the Pledge of Allegiance all through grammar school, high school and college. I suddenly felt like Peter, who, when it came time to stand up for Christ, denied him, not once but three times.
Having my son get hurt while jumping from an airplane seemed to be my worst nightmare - yet it was that incident that kept him at home. I am still ashamed of my reaction to the fact that he remained at home but I know my son - as a Christian - he takes the "lay down my life for my brother" seriously and his natural instinct would have been to step into the line of fire to save another. Ricky knew he was ready to meet his Maker and he would have done so with open arms.
During the years after 9/11, a flag hung on the front of our house 24 hours a day, properly lit of course, as a reminder that we had a son who was serving our country in whatever capacity and who was dearly missed at home. On the day he returned, we took down the flag, folded it properly and presented it to him.
As you know, Ricky met and married Glynda and together they have a beautiful son, Brandon. There are times when I look at my grandson and wonder if he too will follow in his father's footsteps. As I hold him close I know that whatever comes, he will be ready, as his father, his Granny, his great grandfather and great-great grandfather were.
Where was I on 9/11? I was at school in Enid, Oklahoma - but my heart was in New York and at Fort Bragg.
Ricky had joined the military in a time a relative peace in the world. But five years ago, as I huddled around a computer screen with my classmates, I knew the implications and I dreaded them. The sight of those planes crashing into the World Trade Center brought a chill to my bones and made my heart skip a beat. After the Rangers, Airborne were first in. My son was going to be a floating target.
As I mentioned once before, Ricky didn't go overseas. A jump accident prevented him from going and the frustration in his voice was not pleasant to hear. All his buddies were there while he stayed on the base and fueled aircraft. He had joined the Army to support our country and instead he was stuck in the barracks, unable to do what he had trained to do.
And now for my confession: I was glad and ashamed of it. I had come from a military family, I had uncles who fought in Vietnam and a father who had served on a ship during the Korean War - I had a grandfather who had lived through two World Wars and had tried to enlist both times(too young to enlist in the first, too old in the second). I, myself, had served in the Navy until it became apparent that a birth defect in my knees would not allow me to stay and serve my country. What kind of coward was I?
The worst kind I'm afraid - a mother protecting her son. Not so much a coward but the nurturing part of me won out over the patriotic side. And it made me ashamed to call myself an American. Me, who develops tears at the singing of the Star-Spangled Banner and who proudly led and said the Pledge of Allegiance all through grammar school, high school and college. I suddenly felt like Peter, who, when it came time to stand up for Christ, denied him, not once but three times.
Having my son get hurt while jumping from an airplane seemed to be my worst nightmare - yet it was that incident that kept him at home. I am still ashamed of my reaction to the fact that he remained at home but I know my son - as a Christian - he takes the "lay down my life for my brother" seriously and his natural instinct would have been to step into the line of fire to save another. Ricky knew he was ready to meet his Maker and he would have done so with open arms.
During the years after 9/11, a flag hung on the front of our house 24 hours a day, properly lit of course, as a reminder that we had a son who was serving our country in whatever capacity and who was dearly missed at home. On the day he returned, we took down the flag, folded it properly and presented it to him.
As you know, Ricky met and married Glynda and together they have a beautiful son, Brandon. There are times when I look at my grandson and wonder if he too will follow in his father's footsteps. As I hold him close I know that whatever comes, he will be ready, as his father, his Granny, his great grandfather and great-great grandfather were.
Where was I on 9/11? I was at school in Enid, Oklahoma - but my heart was in New York and at Fort Bragg.
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