Many people – including many Texans—may not knows that our current runaway abortion problem started in Texas. The Wade in Roe v Wade was Dallas County District Attorney Henry Wade. And Jane Roe was Norma L. McCovey, who filed in 1969 to get an abortion under Texas law by claiming to have been raped. Her request was denied when she failed to produce a police report attesting the alleged rape, and her attorneys, Linda Coffee and Sarah Weddington, appealed to the courts. By the time the Supreme Court made a judgment in the case on 22 January 1973, McCovey’s child had been born and was three years old.
From this modest beginning, abortion in America has grown to a 1,060,000 annual body count business. That’s two innocent children killed every minute for no other crime than that they were inconvenient.
In the last five minutes, more innocent children have been murdered than Chris Harper shot to death in Roseburg Oregon. And another ten innocent Americans will be killed in the next five minutes. That’s 121 innocent lives lost every hour, or 2,900 murders a day every day of the year!
Clearly this “woman’s right” is being egregiously abused. But numbers are faceless things that numb the mind. The following two poems may serve to put a more personal perspective on the problem.
On Christmas morning little Meg
Came down the stairs in disbelief
As with eyes glowing she surveyed
The presents there beneath the tree.
Then suddenly she turned and ran
On padded feet back up the steps.
What she returned, her pudgy hands,
Held a present wrapped in Kleenex.
The package had been wrapped with pride
And lots of scotch tape, and in red
Crayola printed on the side,
Was “Merry Christmas Jim from Meg.”
She knelt and ceremoniously
Placed the present beneath the tree.
Then standing, she stared wistfully
At it, and a tear ran down her cheek.
Her Grandma, who’d been watching, said,
“Meg, who’s that pretty present to?”
“It’s for my brother Jim,” said Meg.
“I thought he needed a present too.”
Her Grandma frowned and said, “But, Meg
You’ haven’t got a brother Jim.”
“I would have, though,” Meg sadly said,
“If Mommy hadn’t aborted him.”
I wanted to be a good man,
Helping others without complaint.
I wanted sons to make me proud
And to carry on my name.
I wanted good friends around me
To share in my joy and laughter.
I wanted my wife beside me
Through triumph and disaster.
I wanted to share, in our old age,
Fond memories of when we’d courted.
But I must have done something bad,
‘Cause I’ve just been aborted.
Reprinted from Insights and Outlooks– by G. E. Kruckeberg, Kindle edition.
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