I know if you only mention the word “abortion,” like it or not, you have lit a stick of dynamite.
If someone desires to polarize a room into two passionate camps of strong feelings and cries of emotional angst, mention Roe vs. Wade.
I remember being in grade school when the term defining the procedure to terminate a pregnancy entered mainstream American language. The words of a dear sister who was my teacher, at Notre Dame Catholic School, still ring in my ears.
She said, “The word causes raised eyebrows now, but one day, it won’t even evoke an individual to bat an eyelash.” Though she would have rather been wrong, she turned out to be right.
I’m a pastor who doesn’t believe in abortion because I am pro-life. My understanding of the Scriptures shows me that life begins at the moment of conception. While we were still in our mother’s womb, the Bible explains that God had specific plans for our lives.
John the Baptist was filled with the Holy Spirit while Elizabeth carried him inside of her. God called Jeremiah to be a prophet since his conception.
A baby is not a fetus or, worse yet, just an “it.” A baby is a miracle, and even if the pregnancy happened in less than perfect circumstances, it doesn’t mean that the product of that union was a mistake.
Every life is a gift. Even the lives of precious children who never saw the light of day on earth, each one is waiting for us in God’s presence.
Terri and I would have nine children today if they had all lived. Before our son, Rudy, was born, in 1986, we endured two miscarriages, in 1983 and 1984. I say “we” because though, as a man, I didn’t have the honor of carrying those children inside my body, they will forever hold a place in my heart.
After Rudy, Leah and Abbie were born, in 1986, 1988 and 1991, respectfully, tragedy would, once again, rear its ugly head, in 1995 and 1999, when our sons, Nicholas and Benjamin, would only survive a short time on earth.
Though Nicholas was with us for only 90 minutes, we spent a lifetime in an hour and a half, and when it was apparent that déjà vu was occurring with our son, Benjamin, Terri and I wondered if we would ever recover from excruciating heartache. Their lives’ length didn’t change the power of the impact to us. There are still moments when I believe my heart will explode because we miss them profusely.
When Terri learned she was pregnant again, in 2002, medical professionals thought we were crazy. I remember my wife and I sitting in a conference with a doctor, at Cape Regional, as he soberly and seriously rationalized the reasons we should be responsible and terminate the pregnancy, saving ourselves from the harsh reality that because of our history, chances for a healthy birth were a million to one.
I know now why many choose abortion. The tension during the meeting with that physician was so thick, it would have taken a chain saw to cut through, but we knew that there was no way we could take matters into our hands.
I visited our local hospital’s chapel and poured my heart to God. Joel Thomas Sheptock was born July 30, 2003, I was 43 and Terri was 41, but we had another son to raise. He’s currently 17, a senior at Cape May Tech, and I couldn’t imagine our lives without him.
Still, more tragedy loomed.
A ninth child was born too early, in June 2005, and our oldest son, Rudy, was graduating from Middle Township High School that day, as another Sheptock child was ushered directly into God’s presence. I remember someone saying to me, “Are you still going to stay a minister? I mean, look at how many kids you have lost.”
I replied with tear-stained eyes, “It is my faith in God that gives these children purpose. Because I believe God is who He says He is, I will see them all again.”
Every life matters. I grew up in a family where my parents had seven children and adopted 30 more. Many of my brothers and sisters became Sheptocks because nobody wanted them.
My siblings include people society labels as severely handicapped. The Sheptock family is made of kids with no arms, one arm, cerebral palsy, learning disorders, and two wonderful brothers with Down syndrome.
Martin and Issac exhibit more love coming through their pinkies than some so-called healthy people display in their entire body. No one can convince me or either of them that their lives don’t matter.
I can’t imagine how this world would be if they weren’t born. If you ask any of my siblings if they wanted to continue living, I know they would all give you an exuberant “yes.”
These people aren’t accidents. God loves and has a plan for each.
I do not picket abortion clinics and scream hate towards women who have had abortions. I don’t desire to be known as a Christian by just what I am against.
I am for all life and fight for each one until God says it is time to take that person home. I don’t believe that you are suddenly an “it” inside the womb, and that only after your journey down the birth canal you are a human being.
I felt prompted to write about this topic because somebody reading this might be confused and overwhelmed by the predicament they are in. God loves you and is a God of grace and new beginnings.
I want to speak up for the unborn. If all mankind is created equal, these babies are just that, fearfully and wonderfully made by God.
I close with some lyrics from an old Phil Keaggy song: “Who will speak up for the little ones, helpless and half-abandoned? They have a right to choose life they don’t want to lose. I’ve got to speak out, won’t you?”
The World Health Organization estimated that, in 2018, between 40 and 50 million abortions were performed. I write this article in honor of each life that never got the right to see the light of day. Please, choose life.
ED. NOTE: The author is the senior pastor of The Lighthouse Church, 1248 Route 9 South, Court House.
