Pro-Life?

As I sit at the stop light I gaze at your bumper,

Reading the stickers there over and over

“I’m Pro-Life!” one declares, letters bright red and bold

“Save the baby humans!” through another I’m told

You lay on your horn as the light turns green,

With screaming and gestures for all to be seen

You stomp on the gas and with anger you fly,

Passing the woman on the corner right by

“A life is a life” I say thoughtful and slow

Deep in my heart grief, begins to grow

The label “Pro-Life,” we are so quick to bear

But do we understand the weight of what we declare?

If a life is a life no matter how new,

Isn’t a life a life no matter who?

Are we pro-life for those who are yet unborn,

But quick to overlook those who are forlorn?

Will we fight for the rights of babies in womb,

But be cruel to those whose stories we assume?

Will we hold signs for babies--lives ended in strife

But ignore the orphan whose mother chose life?

Will we raise our voice when life ends before it began,

But turn from the woman pregnant "outside of God’s plan?"

Why are we prolife about one issue alone,

When to millions around us we will cast the first stone?

We are pro-life when it’s convenient, clean, and nice

But close our doors to those in need, making them pay the price

What about the widow, the refugee, and the poor?

Or even the rich salesman who stands at your door?

Why is each and  every life not worth our best fight,

Since when is unkindness and judgement alright?

With each stabbing word and every cruel label

We devalue life, passing judgement so hateful

Around us the world is brimming with life,

Some happy, some weary, some overtaken with strife

No matter the life stage or status or race

Each and every life is beauty to embrace

Whether infant or aged, terrorist or pastor,

Each life is worth fighting for, created by our Master.

Democrat, republican, homosexual, or not

Valuing all life and people is what Jesus taught.

Every word that you speak, every time you press “post,”

Is a testimony of that which you value the most.

When you speak to employees or order a burger,

You either speak hatred  or value life with vigor  

President or prostitute, rich man or poor,

Every life being lived could not be worth more

Each life is more precious than we ever could know,

It’s time to step up and let this truth show

May we rise up as people pro-life to the core

Let’s treasure each life instead of raising up war

Muslim or Christian, young or old,

Let’s hear of the stories we haven’t been told

May we push assumptions aside and trade them for love,

Let’s remember the preciousness of each life from above

Casting Stones

I gape and stare at an outcast beauty, pointing and sneering at her swollen belly. Her father is absent, her heart is shattered. She’s no worry of mine, as if it mattered.

I see a man passed out along the way. He reeks of what he used to drown his sorrow away, bottle after bottle, and day after day. No matter his story, I judge and condemn. I don’t care to know where this man has been.

I gaze with disgust at a man whose heart is starved. Down each of his arms, a novel is carved. Stories of pain, betrayal, and hate, are etched into his flesh and tell of his fate.

I sneer at the prostitute who gave herself away knowing that someday she’ll be forced to pay. How dare she perform such revolting behavior! It’s no care of mine that she longs for a Savior.

But...

I'm the heart of the girl with the swollen belly. I forgot I was loved, I sought protection and misjudged. The voices of the world I let woo me away from my Jesus who loves me and holds me each day.

I am the one who is drunken and alone. I neglect the stench of my own alcohol, dripping with judgment as I watch others fall. I choose to be numb from all of my pain, I don’t even acknowledge each new iron chain.

I am the one with the etched and carved arms. I hide my scars beneath the sleeves of religious clichés, “I’m ok’s,” and masquerades. I use knives of self-pity, shame, and past sin. I refuse to let the healing grace of Jesus come in.

I am the woman who gave herself away. I’m the prostitute you see as you go about your way. I search for something that gives me power, refusing to believe I’m His beautiful flower. I’m unfaithful beyond any measure of belief and care not how I cause my LORD grief.

May the stones I hold drop from my hands. May my humbled heart be unable to stand. I’ll collapse to my knees, dropping stones as I fall, for I am the one who is most broken of all. 

Picture from: http://jackielrobinson.com