A Book of American Martyrs(36)
I felt such anguish!—I had wanted to be a minister of the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus, and speak of the word of Jesus to all who would listen. But the church would not have me, and God too had rejected me as one who would spread His word.
The law had been passed in Ohio some years ago, that protesters had to keep no less than seven feet from the abortion providers and staff, and were forbidden to congregate on the front walk or to block passage to the front door of the Center; but often, this law was overlooked.
The Center would not unlock its doors until 8:00 A.M. and no mothers would arrive before then; when they did arrive some would hesitate to leave their vehicles until a volunteer escort approached, to help them past the protesters now crying at them—No! No! Don’t do it!
And the familiar chant that echoed so often in my brain like an angry pulse beating—
Free choice is a lie,
Nobody’s baby chooses to die.
At this hour there were no mothers arriving. But Voorhees would be arriving shortly. This, I knew with certainty.
God guide my hand. God do not allow me to fail.
It was decreed. It would not be altered. Those babies scheduled to be murdered this morning, would not be murdered if I could but act as decreed. And those babies whom the abortionist was to murder in days to come, might yet be spared.
Waiting in my vehicle with the motor turned off. I had been sweating inside my clothes but now, I was becoming calm. At last, at about 7:25 A.M., the dark blue Dodge minivan arrived and pulled into the Center driveway. At first I could not see which of the men in the front of the van was Voorhees for there were two men, then I saw that Voorhees was the passenger, beside him sat his “escort” who was his bodyguard, one of the Center volunteers whom we saw often and who was particularly aggressive and defiant to us.
In an instant, I was out of my vehicle.
In the driveway behind the minivan, moving swiftly. Already Voorhees had stepped out of the vehicle. I had no difficulty identifying the man for I knew his face well. And I had no difficulty seeing my target for my vision had strangely narrowed, it was wonderful how God had narrowed my vision like a tunnel, or a telescope, so that I saw only the target, and no other distractions.
Already my shotgun was lifted to my shoulder, I was aiming and firing even as the abortionist tried to dissuade me with hoarse shouted words—“Stand back! Put down that gun!”
In the foolishness of utter surprise the doomed man raised his arm, his hand with extended fingers—as if to appeal to me, or to shield his face from the blast.
And afterward over the fallen and bleeding man I crouched and my lips moved numbly.
“God have mercy! God forgive you.”
SOON THEN, it was over. On my knees I awaited the police.
If I shut my eyes I can shut out voices as well. Crude and ignorant voices of those that know not what they do.
Since that time it is God I am addressing and not humankind.
Not those who love me, no more than those who hate me.
If God does not answer me, it does not mean that God does not hear me and bless me as His soldier.
Only say the word and my soul shall be healed.
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF
GUS VOORHEES:
AN ARCHIVE
ABORTIONIST’S DAUGHTER
You must be grateful, he didn’t kill you.”
MEMORY, UNDATED
Why can’t we live with Daddy?”
Because it’s dangerous to live with Daddy.
“Don’t you love Daddy? Are you mad at Daddy?”
Yes. I am mad at Daddy. But yes, I love Daddy.
MEMORY, UNDATED: FLYING GLASS
Her mouth was so dry, it felt like her tongue was all stitches!
Black-thread stitches, she’d seen on her daddy’s forearm when the gauze bandage was removed, and the sight of it was so terrible, she shrank away and could not even scream.
Oh what has happened to Daddy what has happened
They’d said flying glass. Something had been thrown through a window, and there had come—flying glass.
Sixty-six stitches in Daddy’s left arm, that was covered in wiry dark hairs.
Sixty-six black-thread stitches so ugly, the sight of them penetrated her brain like shrapnel.
Sixty-six black-thread stitches but Daddy laughed saying he was grateful for at the ER they’d told him it had been sheer luck that one of the three-inch glass slivers hadn’t severed a major artery in his arm.
Shut her eyes tight. Had not wanted to see. Her brother Darren stared and stared.
My brother memorized everything, I think.
Of that life in Michigan, that is lost to me.
I don’t remember anything clearly. Like shattered glass. You see how it has fallen to the floor, but you can’t imagine what it was like before it was shattered not the shape of it, not even the size.
I don’t remember but if I write down a few words, other words will (sometimes) follow unexpectedly.
“Her mouth was so dry, it felt like her tongue was all stitches!”
“ROT IN HELL”
After Daddy died our mother received letters in the mail or jammed into her mailbox or shoved inside the screen door of her house or (a few times) shoved beneath the windshield wiper of the car she was driving.