Interview with a Killer
(Saturday, July 22, 2006)

The day at the mill began like countless before. Our prayer group steadily moved from one rosary bead to the next, over and over, while our counselors attempted to gain even a glance from the poor souls going in to murder their children.

The parking lot was packed, a disheartening fact in itself, but we've always known that the good effects of this outreach are not always visible to the warriors, so we pressed on in prayer and in fortitude.

As a young girl, I had accompanied my family to prayer vigils at the mill and had stood by in awe as my mother bravely confronted the women and men going in. I was shy back then, nervously clutching my rosary and trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Even as an adolescent, I could feel the spiritual battle raging, and could hear the silent screams and the spiritual death knells that were ringing just beyond the wall; it always made me shiver.

Now I do not shiver anymore. I still cry sometimes, when the reality of the blood of the innocent, spilled so heartlessly inside those abortion mill doors, confronts me as boldly as a red hot sunset across the sky. But that's good, I think, because if we become so numb that we cannot cry for the babies, how can our hearts plead effectively for their lives?

For awhile, I was numb, and essentially forgot my unborn neighbors. While I prayed to end abortion, I did not go to the mills to counsel, making up excuses that allowed me to be comfortable with not fighting the fight. It wasn't until I was pregnant with my first child and past the seemingly interminable nausea and vomiting that I went back out to the mill to pray and to counsel. My pregnancy allowed me to relate to the women going in, and our outreach was blessed with several turn-arounds over the period of several months.

Then I had my baby on Holy Thursday, a beautiful little boy with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes, and I did not return to the mill for several months while I was recovering. My little one was already a prolife warrior, having been a beautiful testimony in utero to the miracle of new life. When I returned to counseling at the mill, I brought my precious bundle of joy to continue to be a witness to all about the horrors of abortion. I wanted everyone to know that abortion kills children like my baby.

My words often fail, and I truly wish I had the gift to be able to talk to anyone and have them believe me. But my being there on the street corner in front of the abortion mill, holding my baby in one arm and my rosary in the other, says volumes. Many of the abortion-bound don't even stop to listen to what we counselors have to say, but my baby makes them stop. They always shout out, "I don't know why you have your baby here! He should be at home!" And I always reply that I am sorry if he makes them feel guilty or ashamed for not choosing life, and that abortion kills babies just like him.

One abortion clinic worker had a baby around the exact same time I had mine. She approached me today and stated that it was horrible that I had my baby out there in the hot sun, stating that that was child abuse. "Do you want to know what the real child abuse is? It's ripping children limb from limb; it's killing them. That's what you're doing in there," I said. She could not reply.

Not long afterwards, the abortionist arrived. He's an a very old man who in all appearces looks like he could be anyone's grandpa. Noting the packed parking lot, he droved up to the side of the building and parked by the sidewalk. Another counselor and I realized that he would have to enter the mill via the sidewalk, and we realized that we had the perfect opportunity to approach and talk to him, so we hurried to meet him. I was holding my baby, and as he got out of his car, he reached toward my child with a huge grin on his face and said, "What a beautiful baby! May I hold him?"

I was stunned. This man, this murderer, this killer guilty of shedding the blood of thousands of innocent babies, wanted to hold my child. Part of my heart wondered if holding a baby would change his evil heart, but my motherly instinct responded before this thought was finished. "No, you can't." He came up to me and placed his hand on my shoulder, putting lots of pressure on the shoulder blade and smiling with a sickening smile. "Now isn't that too bad? Isn't that too bad?" he said.

"Tell me, how can you do it? How can you kill hundreds of innocent babies every year?" I asked him.

"Oh, they're not babies," he "pshaw"ed, and smiled. "They're not babies when the women come to me. And I am not going to stand in the way of a woman's choice."

"Choice to do what?" asked the other counselor.

"To end her pregnancy," replied the smiling reptile.

"Those are convenient words for murder," said the other counselor. She then proceeded to tell him that she was one of millions of women hurt by abortion, and informed him about the Centurions, an organization consisting of reformed abortion providers.

"We are praying for your conversion and for you to come to the realization that what you do is murder. Stop the slaughter of unborn babies."

Throughout this interview, the killer put an arm around each of us counselors and started walking to the mill as if we were lifelong buddies. He was actually doing this for protection, because if anyone was going to take him out, we would be his shield. Obviously he does not understand the nature of our protest, which is prayerful and non-violent, but all the same, he is a wilely old serpent.

So there you have it straight from his own lips: one way an abortionist can live with himself and not go insane because of his crimes is because he believes that unborn babies are not babies, and that hurting women is actually helping them. The fact that this illogic is directly opposed to reality does not seem to bother him...yet.