Within a two hour “Choice” Chain, you can converse with a wide variety of people. Whenever I set up, taking my stack of literature and turning my sign depicting an abortion victim to face approaching pedestrians and onlookers, I never know what to expect. By the time we pack up, though, it’s sometimes hard to recall conversations in detail. That’s why I try to write down significant ones as soon as possible while they are still fresh in my mind.
After a summer away as I helped with internship logistics, I returned to my administrator’s desk this past week to resume my tasks, one of which is handling the donations that come through our Eastern office.
When standing outside of high-schools engaging or attempting to engage the teenagers rushing by, I nearly always find myself struggling with a deep sense of sadness. It happened several weeks ago as I stood outside of a Toronto high-school. Very few students exited the school, and as I stood, trying to pass the time by telling stories in my head, I happened to look up. Two girls peered out at us from upstairs window. They stared at the images, whispered something to each other, and looked again. One of them caught my eye, nudged her friend, and both girls disappeared.
What motivated you to join the pro-life movement? What continues to motivate you?
I was motivated to join the pro-life movement through exposure to a graphic video of an abortion procedure. The thought of innocent lives being taken in the most brutal way every day continues to motivate me.
Last week, I went on the Canadian Centre for Bio-Ethical Reform’s Florida GAP trip for the second time. I knew before I went that I wouldn’t come back the same. I think no matter how many times you go on a trip like that, the people you meet and the conversations you have change you. But it’s a good change, I think. It makes you more compassionate, more understanding. This trip did that for me again, but it was different this time around.
He was a short man, I was just as tall if not taller than he was. He was strolling down the sidewalk, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black coat. And then he saw us with our signs, and he stopped. He examined my sign and I reached out, offering a pamphlet. He took it, glanced inside, and when he looked up he offered me a pitying smile.
“You don’t have to do this you know,” he said patronizingly. “It’s okay if you just go home.”
“Thank-you, sir,” I replied, “but I’m here because I find it important to be here.”
He sighed and shook his head. “No, you really don’t mean that. In fact, you don’t really know what you’re doing here at all.”