My mother had shared with me throughout my youth that she had miscarried multiple times in her child-bearing years.
Prior to having my sister, my mom had been told she would likely never be able to bear children. My brother’s pregnancy, two years before mine, was a difficult one, as we would be told over the course of our growing up. As a young child, hearing of how many struggles my mom faced simply to have a family, I felt a bit like a miracle child. I felt a sense of awe that I was alive, and in some unintended way, that spoke to my self-worth. As a child hearing these stories, I really did not fully understand what took place during a miscarriage; I just knew that meant I would have brothers and sisters in Heaven. I wondered what our family would have been like with more than twice the children. While it wasn’t a topic of frequent conversation, those thoughts always took up residence in my mind. It was only recently that I came to understand the vital part those stories and the situation behind them played in my life.
When I was the tender age of 18, away from home and all that was familiar, I found myself in a relationship with a young man. Soon, we were pregnant. He demanded that I have an abortion, and out of utter fear and selfishness, I went through with it. My mom did not know for quite some time. It took a great many years, but God ushered in complete healing in my life. Over time, I have come to see that God offers that healing in pieces, always at the time that I am most able to grasp the beauty of that portion of the healing. His Grace always overflows in these moments. And, as before with so many other moments, God brought forth a new revelation to me just this past Christmas season.
Over Christmas break, my mother and I were talking and she made the comment that when she was pregnant with my brother, the doctor had reason for concern for the health of the baby and her and asked her if she wanted to have an abortion. Mind you, this was pre-Roe days, when abortion was truly rare, but her pregnancy was troubled: started with her still menstruating three months in, she had a bout with measles and these were the days of Thalidomide. (She recalls being given a medicine to stop the menstruation; but is not sure if it was Thalidomide). My mother said she responded with an absolute no, without question. We finished our conversation and went about our day. As she retold this yet unknown part of the familiar story, it began to settle in my spirit: my mother gave me a legacy for life. All my childhood memories of those unmet brothers and sisters, lost to miscarriage, all those stories of the struggles my mom faced in her pregnancies, the long, difficult labors she endured, ALL in the name of life. She was faced with the same offer as I was, and chose life. She chose life, even when it did not sustain itself to birth. She chose life even in the face of difficulty and unknown results. She recalled how that same doctor, upon delivering my brother, declared, “He’s got all his fingers and all his toes!”
My mother honored life before we called it “pro-life”. She spoke life into our family by her choice to seek being a mom amidst repetitive failed pregnancies. She gave us life with no thought for the challenge her body faced each time. Contrast that to our current society, to my own choice so long ago.
In this moment, her legacy grows even more precious, and I am blessed to call her Mom.
*** Becky Soske *** is a Kindergarten teacher with a passion for children and teaching. She is a public speaker and author. She resides with her husband children in Wyoming.
