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Testimonies
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He Will Give You Beauty
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Gloria
North Carolina,
United States
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The clock on the wall ticks in half-time to my racing heart. Though others are in the waiting room with me, none of our eyes meet. The receptionist ignores all of us and goes on about her business. A heavy fog of shame, fear, and regret clings to me, weighing me down, causing me to sink even lower in the seat and in my own self-image. My mother and sister sit silently beside me, each lost in their own thoughts about why we are here. I am afraid to look at my mother – afraid to see the shame and disappointment I know will be there. I had let down the most important person in my life. Though I desperately want and need to climb up into her lap like I did when I was a small child to cling to her and have her make everything alright, I know I can’t. Not this time. She can’t make this better. She can’t make this go away. I sink lower in the seat, thinking back to how I ended up here . . .
Starting around the age of five or six, I discovered that there are men in this world that like to touch girls, drunken men especially. Certain boys like to touch, too. And “resistance is futile” (as the Borg would say). If you don’t let them touch you willingly, then they will use their strength and/or your weaknesses against you. And men who like to touch little girls are smart; they know just what to say to make you more afraid of not letting them touch you than you are of what they might do if you did let them. Somehow – though I still can’t figure out how – they were able to convince me that their touching me was all my fault and I would be the one punished if I told anyone.
When I was very young, I got candy and attention to keep quiet and let them have their way. And to be honest, I kind of liked how their touch made my body feel. I also liked the attention. Being the baby of six children, I was often overlooked and outright ignored so I loved being the center of attention even though I disliked what I had to do to receive it. When I got a little older, I allowed it because there didn’t seem to be any point in stopping it, and because my young body had grown to expect it and even anticipate it – yet hate it at the same time. It was a constant struggle between liking the attention and the good feeling and the shame and disgust that I felt when they touched me.
These boys were smart, too. Every day as I walked from the bus stop down our long, lonely road towards home, I would hope against hope that the “brothers” weren’t waiting to ambush me, cover my mouth, and drag me toward the yarn pile where they would have their fun with my body. These boys preyed on my worst fears and deepest loves. Many times I laid there compliantly as one boy did things to me while his brothers held my dog with a knife to his throat, threatening to kill him because I had dared to try to fight and run away. It also didn’t help that their parents owned the house we lived in. I was told repeatedly that if I fought, ran away, or told anyone that my family would be out on the street with nowhere to live. My family would be homeless and it would all be my fault . . .
A solemn-faced nurse comes to the door and calls my name. My mind screams to run out the front door and never stop running, but instead my feet take me toward the nurse and toward what I know to be wrong, but don’t know how to stop. I am 15 and almost 12 weeks pregnant. And I am terrified. Terrified to go through with this abortion and terrified to not go through with it. The voice that I’ve heard nonstop for the past week continues to speak in my head . . . “You’re too young to be a mother. You can’t take care of a baby. You have a life ahead of you. You can’t give a baby any kind of life. You are going to college to be a nurse. You’ll have to give that all up to raise a child. Your boyfriend is 19! Your dad will put him in jail for getting you pregnant. Can you live with that? Your boyfriend didn’t ask to be a daddy. You won’t be a good mother. Your baby won’t have a good life. You’re doing the best thing for this baby. It’s the right decision. It’s the only decision . . .”
During the summer of my 11th birthday, we moved to a new neighborhood and the touching stopped. However, by that time, I had come to believe that my value and worth as a person was all tied up in how good my body could make a boy or man feel. I got attention. Boys wanted to play with me. Some older men noticed me. For that brief moment in time, I was important. I mattered. If a boy liked me, I was unable to believe even for a moment that he liked me for the person I was. Something about me may have attracted him to me at first, but I knew it was just a matter of time before he discovered there was nothing to me. Yet, I was so relieved to be away from the touching and I didn’t mind that the boys only saw me as a tomboy.
I also desperately wanted the friendship of girls – something I hadn’t experienced in my first 11 years – so I reached out to the “good church girls” of my new neighborhood. They rejected me, some in very mean and cruel ways. Still desperately seeking and needing friendship, I then reached out to the not-so-good girls of the neighborhood and they welcomed me with open arms. Finally, I had friends. Unfortunately, the wounds and self-image damage were so deep that it wasn’t long before they clamored to the surface. It wasn’t long before I was doing what my new friends were doing. At the age of 12, I started smoking cigarettes and smoking pot. At the age of 13, I began drinking, doing harder drugs, and became sexually active. I lost my virginity in the back seat of a car to a 19-year-old guy I believed with all my heart loved me, but really just wanted to be able to brag that he had “been with a virgin”. It was a miserable and painful experience. I had heard sex was supposed to be this wonderful thing. On TV, it looked like it was so enjoyable. What I experienced wasn’t wonderful or enjoyable. It was painful and left me feeling dirty, ashamed, unwanted, and rejected. What had I done?
I follow the nurse down a long hall and into a room on the right. There is a table in the middle of the room that seems way too big for the room. I am told to take off all my clothes and put on this gown. The nurse never smiles. She doesn’t even bother to look at me. The heavy fog of shame lowers once again over me. I am dirt. I am a slut. I am an evil person. I have let everyone down. I am a failure. The door closes. I start undressing . . .
I continued to believe that if I wanted a boy to like me and want me for a girlfriend, then I had to have sex with him. Though I craved the feeling of being loved and wanted, I hated having sex. However, I couldn’t risk the rejection I was sure I’d receive if I refused to give in so I soon learned to do whatever was necessary to get it over as quickly as possible. But this only added to my feelings of shame and self-loathing. I was caught in a vicious, destructive cycle that I didn’t know how to stop.
By the age of 15, I finally came to realize that I could get pregnant so I decided that no matter what, I was not going to have sex with my next boyfriend. During the fall of my 15th year, I met an older boy who showed an interest in dating me. He was even interested in meeting my parents and asking permission to take me out. Surprisingly, my parents agreed. I was so thrilled about having an older boyfriend! It wasn’t long, however, before his interest in me changed. Unknown to me, he had heard about me and wanted to experience it himself. However, in my strongest, most confident voice, I informed him that I would not have sex with him because I didn’t want to get pregnant. I remember thinking, “There! I said it! Now we can just get back to dating. Wait a minute, what is he saying? He was injured in high school and can’t be a father? We don’t have to worry about me getting pregnant? Now, what do I do?” Hopeless, I give in yet again to what I despise, but feel I have no power to prevent . . .
The nurse comes back in and helps me onto the table. The doctor comes in and with a stern, hateful face and voice asks me did I not realize that having sex could get me pregnant? The fog of shame gets thicker. The nurse puts my feet in stirrups. I want to scream and run out of there, but I know I can’t. No baby deserves me for a mother. My parents deserve better than me for a daughter. The nurse stretches out my arm and begins inserting the IV . . .
The first knot of fear welled up in my throat. I felt like I was going to vomit. My period hadn’t come. I thought to myself, “I can’t be pregnant! My boyfriend said he couldn’t be a father. It must just be some quirk with my body. There’s no way I’m pregnant.” I chose to ignore it, hoping against hope that my period would come the next month. The knot of fear persisted, though I kept pushing it to the back of my mind. The next month came and still no period. By that time, the knot of fear had become a gigantic fist in the pit of my stomach. I confided in a friend and she suggested I go to the health department for a pregnancy test. I forged my mother’s signature on the form and gave a urine sample. My friend and I sat in the waiting room. I cried out to a God that I never listened to or cared much about except for times when I was in trouble. “Please God, don’t let me be pregnant. I’ll be a good girl, I promise. I’ve learned my lesson. No more sex for me! I won’t have sex again until I’m married if you’ll just not let me be pregnant.” I heard my name called. I went back into the nurse’s office. I was approximately 11 weeks. My mind went blank and then thoughts began racing through my mind, “Pregnant! I’m pregnant? This can’t be happening! What am I going to tell my parents? My parents! They are going to kill me! My dad will have my boyfriend put in jail. I can’t be a mother! I’m too young to be a mother!” The nurse informed me that I must have an abortion that week or I would have to be hospitalized because the law required any abortion past 12 weeks be done in a hospital. She gave me the name of the local abortion clinic. I walked out feeling numb, emotionless, yet at the same time filled with all sorts of emotion. Fear and shame mixed with something akin to excitement. I touched my belly. A baby. I’ve got a baby inside me. How am I going to tell my mother? What do I say?
I told my sister who took me to tell my mother. I will never forget the look on her face. She knew before I told her. She hugged me, but I could feel the hurt in her body and hear it in her voice. I failed you, Mom. I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! I wish I could go back. They scheduled the abortion for two days later. Time was of the essence . . .
I can feel the drug working its way up my arm, into my shoulder, and up my neck. The sweetest, warmest feeling comes over me. I feel completely relaxed. I hear something loud. It sounds like a vacuum cleaner. What’s a vacuum cleaner doing in the room? Wait a minute! That’s not a vacuum cleaner! It’s coming from where the doctor is. What’s he going to do with it? I feel something being inserted inside me. It’s cold. He’s putting the vacuum inside me. Oh, so that’s how it’s done. I expect to hear one loud suck and then it’s over. But no, I hear another sound . . . a terrible sound . . . it reminds me of when I’m at the bottom of a very thick shake and I’m trying to suck the last little bit up the straw. It sounds like little pieces of milkshake being sucked up through the straw . . . Wait a minute! Why IS it making that sound? There’s only one baby, right? Then why does it sound like that? What . . . ?
I have no memory of leaving. I remember being in the car heading to my sister-in-law’s to recuperate. The voice I’ve heard since I found out I was pregnant now begins to speak again, but this time the tone is menacing, accusing, hateful. “You’ve just killed your own baby! What kind of monster does that? What kind of person are you? How could you do that to your own child? You’re a murderer! A baby-killer! No man will ever want you now. God will never forgive you for this! Never! How could you?"
I believed that voice.
My boyfriend and I continued dating and being sexually active (though with use of birth control). But I was changed forever. The feelings of worthlessness, low-esteem, and self-loathing intensified. As the years went by, I learned how to hide these feelings. I learned to laugh on the outside while I was crying on the inside. I learned to appear confident when I was really terrified. I learned to be outgoing even though I felt very shy. I never spoke about the abortion. My family never spoke about it. My father never knew.
I got married soon after graduating high school and a few years later had two wonderful sons. Unfortunately, I increasingly began to doubt my ability to be a mother and felt like a failure in everything. I hated myself so much. There came a point in my life when I felt like such a failure as a wife and mother that the only solution I could see to end everyone’s misery was to kill myself. I had it planned and was gearing myself up for the courage to go through with it. As the time approached, however, another voice started sounding in my head; one that reminded me how much I loved my children and how much my sons loved me, and how it would hurt them if I died. This, of course, only added to my guilt and shame. That same voice then asked if I would go to heaven if I killed myself. I didn’t know the answer. I realized that if I killed myself and I was wrong, I wouldn’t be able to come back and change my mind. I would go to hell. That terrified me. I decided to continue on with life, never telling anyone how close I had come to ending it.
I don’t remember why exactly, but there came a point in time when I started feeling drawn to the local church my teenage sons attended. One Sunday evening, I entered this church while a revival service was going on. I don’t remember the message. I don’t remember any specific thing that was said. What I do remember is what I said in my heart . . . “Jesus, I can’t go on like this anymore. I hate myself! There’s nothing I like about myself. I’m a failure at everything! My boys deserve better, but I don’t know how to give it to them. I’ve done such awful things, Lord. I killed my baby. I killed my baby!!!! Please forgive me! Please! I’m so sorry . . . so very, very sorry. I give You my life, Lord. I give you all that I am and all that I’m not, all that I like about me and all that I don’t like. I don’t know if You can do anything with me, but whatever You want to do with me, I’m willing. I give my life to You. I’ve made such a mess of it, but I give it to You. Whatever is left of it is Yours. Change me, please.”
I didn’t go forward. I didn’t tell anyone. Lightning didn’t flash and thunder didn’t crash. A beam of light didn’t shine down from heaven. But, from that moment on, I was changed . . . . forever.
Though I didn’t realize it, at that very moment, Jesus started doing a work in my heart and in my life, and He continues to this very day. In Isaiah 61:3, God tells us that He will give us beauty for ashes and joy for mourning. To me, ashes represent death and destruction. Jesus takes the things that have destroyed us or destroyed others through us and turns them into something that can be used to help save others or help them heal. God also tells us through the Apostle Paul in Romans 8:1 that, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” Jesus paid the penalty for my abortion and all my other sins, and He did the same for you. God no longer holds it against me. His Son carried the shame of my sin on His shoulders so I would no longer have to. I am forgiven. I am free. I am saved. Jesus took every shameful, disgusting, and evil thing I did, put His kiss of love and forgiveness on it, and turned it into a healing ministry. I now share my story with teenagers to hopefully prevent them from making the same mistakes I made. I also share my story with women so they can see that Jesus loves them, too, and what He’s done in my life He wants to do in theirs.
You see, when Jesus hung on that cross in agony, He could have come down at any time. He could have stopped it at anytime. But I am one of the reasons He stayed there. He looked ahead into time and thought, “She is going to need me. She’s going to need to know she’s forgiven. She’s going to need to know someone truly loves her. She is worth it.” Jesus died so I could be forgiven of my sin. He died so you could be forgiven of your sin. I personally can’t think of any greater sin than killing an innocent, unborn baby, but Jesus paid the penalty for that sin. He died in my place so that I could stand righteous before a Holy God. He died so I wouldn’t have to.
As my relationship with Jesus deepens, He continues to teach me that my value comes from simply being His creation. He reassures me that though He may be disappointed in some of the things I do, He is never, ever disappointed in me. He demonstrates that though I may fail Him sometimes, He will never fail me. Though I am not always faithful to Him, He is always faithful to me. He tells me in Psalm 139:14 that I am “fearfully and wonderfully made” by Him. He loves every single thing about me! Jesus is teaching me that if I will give Him my pain, He will heal that pain and use it to heal someone else. The love I’ve been searching for all my life has been there all my life waiting for me! He gives me perfect love because He is perfect love. He fills every empty place inside me. He heals me everywhere I hurt.
The voice I heard in my head trying to convince me to have the abortion and the voice I heard immediately after having the abortion telling me what an awful person I was came from the same person – Satan. Satan hates you and me with a loathing that we cannot humanly comprehend. Satan does his best to talk us into doing things and then accuses and condemns us for those very same things. But you don’t have to live with shame anymore. Just give it to Jesus. He’ll gladly take it from you. He willingly and gladly paid the price for your life. He looked ahead in time and saw you. You were worth it to Him. You are still worth it. All you have to do is accept what He freely died to give you. Give Him your baby. Give Him your life. Give Him your shame and your sin. Accept His forgiveness. Accept His Salvation. Accept His Lordship over your life. He will heal you and restore you. And He will do things in you and through you that you never thought possible.
We live in a fallen world where death, disease, pain, hardship, and suffering are a common occurrence. Giving your life to Jesus doesn’t mean you won’t continue to experience those things. What it does mean, however, is that you will never experience them alone or without something good coming from that experience. With Jesus, your baby’s death will not be in vain. If you will let Him, your baby’s death and all the pain you have suffered or caused will be used to lessen or prevent the pain of someone else. Give Him your ashes and He will give you beauty in return. Give Him your mourning and He will give you joy in return. Give Him your pain and He will give you healing in return. But more importantly, give Him your sin and He will give you forgiveness in return. Just do what the Apostle Paul says in Romans 10:9-10: “If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. 10For with the heart one believes unto righteousness, and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.” It is the best decision you will ever make and one choice you will NEVER regret.
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