Sitting on the edge of the bath, I did not even notice that my hands were shaking uncontrollably. All I could see were two blue lines on the pregnancy test.
I was pregnant!
"Oh no," I whispered. "this can't be happening, not to me." Seventeen, and dux of year twelve, my future had never looked brighter. Until this moment.
My heart missed a beat and then thundered mercilessly in my chest. I cannot have this baby! My parents were strong Christians, as I have tried to be, but if they found out I have been sleeping with Danny, a deacon's son, they would skin me alive. Not to mention what effect this would have on the whole church if they found out that teenagers in the Youth Group were sleeping together.
I glanced at my fear stricken face in the mirror. My golden curls seemed to mock me, and a blanket of terror descended upon me, leaving me laboring for each breath.
"Oh God," I cried, "I'm so sorry, and I know this is wrong, but I can't have this baby. There is too much at stake." I wanted to cry, but the agony of this decision rendered my tear ducts dry.
I had to have an abortion. There was no other option. And I knew what to do. Just last week a school friend told me she had had an abortion from a young med student she knew.
Standing shakily I looked in the mirror again, and prayed, "Jesus, I'm really, really sorry, but I have to do this."
But even as I finished praying, a powerful, foreign thought sped through my mind, "Listen."
I took a step back in shock. The Lord spoke to me! And so clearly. But what did He mean? Listen to what?
A thump on the bathroom door. "Brenda! You finished in there? Something to show you!"
Slumping my shoulders in defeat, I unlocked the door and tied to bypass my little sister. This was no time for chit-chat. But Cynthia shoved something colorful in my face, "Look what I'm doing Bren," she said, "I'm knitting a scarf for you!"
I forced an empty smile on my face while moving Cynthia out of my way. "That's lovely, sis."
"Come on kids, breakfast is ready! You've got ten minutes to scoff it down or we'll be late to church," bellowed my father's voice.
I was staring at the bowl of steaming oats when my younger brother dropped his plaster encased forearm with a loud clunk onto the table next to my bowl.
"Hey Bren," he said while handing me a texta, "you said you'd sign my cast. But you gotta do it before me bone knits together, or what's the point?"
"Brenda, you OK this morning?" asked my father, his eyebrows knitted together with concern.
I mumbled some vague reply and pretended to eat.
My mother swept into the kitchen, "Is this shawl OK dear? I know it's a loose knit weave, but I like it."
Standing up, my dad said, "Might be a tad cold, honey, but it suits you. Now, let's go to church!" He bundled us out the door but threw his arms around us all before we got in the car. "I love you guys, and I love the way God has knitted us together into a great family."
Church was agony. The wrong place to be in my condition. My face was hot, and my heart palpitated endlessly.
Finally the minister took the pulpit, opened his Bible, and said, "New International Version, Psalm 139:13. 'For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother's womb.'..."
My hands flew to my face in shock. Tears were streaming down my cheeks. Bowing my head, I prayed, "Oh Jesus, now I get it. You said to 'listen', and all morning everyone keeps talking about knitting. Now I see why. Oh Lord, I know what I've done is wrong, but this little baby in me, he or she has not done anything wrong. I could only see my own situation, I did not think about the baby. I did not realise that You are, even this very moment, knitting this baby together inside me..."
I started when a hand gently touched my shoulder. "What's wrong dear, why are you crying?" asked my mother.
I looked up and met her blue eyes. "Mom," I sniffed, "I'm going to have a baby..."
Peter Stone, a Bible College Graduate, has an international marriage and two children. Suffers from epilepsy and otosclerosis. He teaches Sunday school and plays the piano in church.
Article Source: http://www.faithwriters.com
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