A significantly modified version of this post appeared at the Boundless Blog. You can find that here. (I like them both.) I was sitting in the church service when I heard the preacher say something that made me cringe: “If you can’t remember the day you gave your heart to Jesus, then you probably never were saved in the first place.”
I was 10 years old when I saw my neighbor run over my dog, Spot. In a horrific flash, Spot went under the tire, thrashed around in the front yard for a few seconds and then collapsed in the ditch. I screamed out his name and ran to his side, hoping that I could somehow stop the inevitable.
This post is written in memory of the countless infants who were murdered at the hands of Dr. Kermit Gosnell, who was convicted of their deaths in 2013. You can read more about the trial here. We do not know how many thousands of you there are; nor do we know the names God has now given you. But what we do know is that your lives on this earth were far too short, that you deserved better than you got – and today, we want you to know this: we remember you.
The other day, my two-year-old daughter was standing in the kitchen, randomly saying, “Jesus was born, Jesus was born!” So I said, “Jesus died. He rose again, He went to Heaven, and – guess what? He’s coming back to see us!” As soon as the phrase, “He’s coming back to see us” left my mouth, I winced, reflexively thinking, “I shouldn’t tell her that. She might actually expect Him to come visit sometime soon.”
Last Friday afternoon, I got a call from my neurologist’s office. I had recently gotten an MRI, and my doctor’s secretary had called to say my doctor wanted me to see an oncologist. I didn’t know why my doctor wanted me to see a cancer specialist; and unfortunately, the secretary didn’t either. “Please, if you know what this is about, tell me,” I said. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I don’t, but I’ll have the doctor call you back today.”