Children of the Heart the Calling of Betty Baker Bailey

There comes a time in all our lives when we make a decision that changes us forever.  For me it was when I asked the Lord what He wanted me to do.  I had been studying how true Christians work for Him and I realized that I had it reversed.  I prayed expectantly and received on a regular basis, but I wasn't actually doing anything to serve Him.  So, I posed the question.  Little did I know, but His answer was about to turn my life completely upside down and inside out.

In the past getting answers usually took consistency.  I'd ask and ask and eventually, He would respond.  This time the Lord was quick to answer.  There was no difficulty understanding Him either.  I didn't wonder if I had heard Him correctly or if I was imagining things. His reply was all too direct and clear, "I want you to write about the children of abortion."  At first I was completely speechless, but after I regained my composure there was no end to my complaining.

"No Lord," I begged, "You don't want me to do that.  You must realize I can't be thinking about those things because of my past.   You must know what kind of grief that would bring me.  Why, it would be more than I could bear.  I'll tell you what, send me to India or Africa.  Have me work with the incurable or take a vow of poverty.  Anything.  Absolutely anything, but not abortion."

Why was I so desperate?  Guilt.  Simply put, I was absolutely guilt-ridden.  In the 80's I suffered a --horrendous miscarriage brought on by my own ignorance.  After sticking to a severe diet for a couple of months, I found myself holding my dead son; my beautiful, adorable dead son.  Up until just a few weeks before I had not even realized I was pregnant.  And there his limp, little body lay in the palm of my hand.  According to attending physicians, I was about 5 months.  My son looked like he was about 3.   I had no confusion about whom or what he was.  It was all too painfully clear -- as was what I had done to him.

Just considering what is done to the children taken by abortion brought back all the guilt, grief, and regrets I had so neatly tucked away for my son.  To attempt to put that anguish into words seemed unbearable.  I was convinced I simply could not do it.

As the days passed I avoided all but short direct little prayers, and made no attempt to really commune or praise Him.  But where do you hide from a God that sees and hears everything?  I knew it was just a matter of time before He approached me again, but I clung to the hope He would let me slide on this one.

I closed my eyes to sleep expecting sweet or at least nondemanding dreams. Instead I found myself in a place so horrific that had I remained there more than a few moments, I doubt I would have survived. I hesitate to put the details here, but do so in order that you may understand the depth of the pit we are all standing collectively in.

I was standing in darkness so deep that not one hint of light penetrated it.  I heart raced as I tried in vain to peer into it.  The heart-wrenching cry of a nearby, wounded infant added to my desperation.   I listened frantically, trying to place which of my children needed me. The sound was just too real; too painful to have been imagined.

As I began to turn slowly, hoping to gain some sense of direction from the sound, a small, dim light appeared in the distance.  Instinctively I started for it, but stopped dead in my tracks when I realized what lay before me.

The remains of an aborted child anguished in a basket before me.  His tears were not just from the physical pain he had endured, but from knowing he had been so totally rejected by his own.  His mournful cry made my arms literally ache to hold him.  I wanted desperately to comfort him; to give him the love and affection he deserved and so deeply needed, but his physical condition was such that I was afraid to pick him up.

Suddenly little lights started appearing all around me.   From each one there cried out a tender little voice.  As I looked around I realized I was standing at the center of a vast arena, literally surrounded by thousands of hurting, wailing children.  I turned and the Lord stood beside me.  His eyes were full of the anguish I was feeling, but they were also angry . . . very angry.   As fell to my knees sobbing hysterically, I woke.

I lay there in the darkness thinking about His simple request, "Write about the children." Still I did not go to my computer. I thought what good could a poem possibly do against such evil?

A day or so afterwards the Holy Spirit woke me at 4 a.m.  Literally, He sat me up in bed, got me up out of bed and walked me down the hall to my desk.  Still, I resisted, telling Him I was not the one to undertake this task.  But under His gentle encouragement I began to poor out my heart for the children.  Thoughout that day He guided me.  When I cried, and I cried buckets full, He comforted me.  It was both excruciating and enlightening.

When it was finished, the Lord told me to send it to the local churches.  I thought, they'll never listen to someone like me, but I did it anyhow -- all 700+ of them.  From there we took to passing it out, getting it published in an e-zine, and posting it on websites.  Although response from the churches was disappointing, I received emails from around the world.  Some pro-aborts became pro-life.  Some who were planning an abortion decided to keep their children.  Some who, like me, had been inactive began to take action.

The last thing on earth I ever wanted to do became the most important thing I'd ever done.  It wasn't long before I became an active on-site witness, the blankets followed that, and then the art.  Today I still ask the Lord what He wants me to do.  The difference now is that I don't waste so much time arguing.