Love and roast chicken
Grandma came last week. She picked up my oldest son, my eight year old, for a date in her backyard. It was a momentous occasion.
It was chicken killing day at Grandma’s.
They gathered the two month old birds that had grown so fat they could barely walk. They flipped them upside down and quickly, with a sharp knife, ended the deep chickeny thoughts of every one.
My son watched the blood drain out. And he helped Grandma and Grandpa and their friends move the fluffy bodies through the process, assembly line style, until they had been converted into neat little packages of thighs, breasts, and wings. White, bloodless, and unrecognizable from their original state.
We ate fresh baked chicken for supper.
I am 10 weeks pregnant.
Did you know that means I am at the perfect age for an abortion?
If you try much earlier, the risk is much higher that they will miss the little fetus as they scrape out the womb. The baby is formed enough now that they can recognize all the parts as they pull them out piece by piece- ripped off arms and legs, mangled organs, crushed head, pulsing heart.
I know that is graphic. I know I’m mostly preaching to the choir. But I also know they never told me the process when they made it an option. In fact, they made it sound like a sterile, almost alluring choice when I was 21 weeks pregnant with a baby whose spine never completely formed. And for a moment, I joined the millions of women who feel the panic rising in their throat and wish there was a way out. And I am very glad I didn’t take it. But recently I looked it up. It bothers me. Blood bothers me. Death bothers me.
And it should.
The life of the flesh is in the blood… Leviticus 17:11
My son came face to face with death. He told me the hardest part wasn’t watching the chickens stop breathing. That was quick, almost painless. It was pulling out the hearts afterward. It was the blood.
I know the news has images of thousands murdered in the Middle East. I know there are wars and rumors of atrocities in many places. It is horrific. Barbaric. And we quickly condemn it from our side of the world, and turn off the screen and go back to our lattes (or laundry, etc.) But here, in our “civilized” culture, thousands more are being fatally ripped to shreds. Silently. In California alone, where most news that hits the front of magazines originates, around 200,000 babies will be ripped from women’s bodies this year. Hearts still pumping. And it won’t make the news. I wonder who shall be judged more harshly?
I know this isn’t a fun post. But this weighs heavy on my heart. I hate that my country empowers people to sin. It empowers boys to think they can claim sex as a right, with no fear of personal consequence. I have boys. I want to raise men. Men take responsibility. That is why I let them see blood (in a controlled environment.) That is why I go to the trouble to vote, though I don’t like hype and hate the mess of politics and it’s hard to cram so many little bodies around me in a voting cubicle. If I don’t choose a government who will fight for life on my behalf, I do no better than standing on the sidelines watching the slaughter. Our country would rather save the animals and kill their own people. I would much rather eat the animals, and treat people worthy of life. Jesus did.
He bled to save our life. It cost him dearly. But He considered your life worth it. Babies the age of my newest one will die today. Let’s not be chickens. Life is precious and I will fight for it.
End of rant 🙂