Abortion: What Happens If I Tell My Story?
Part III of IV in the series - Abortion: Refocusing the Conversation with Judgment-Free Compassion
My goal for this four-part series is to encourage us to step away from the political, religious, and legal battles over abortion and consider the impact our discourse and political efforts have had on women who have either had an abortion or found themselves navigating life as a single mother. Thank you to the women who have shared their stories with me over the past four years. I hope my words honor the often wrenchingly painful stories. I am grateful for those who have supported me in healing and writing this series—both men and women. May we always choose to lead with non-judgmental compassion.
If you have not read the first two posts in this series, it will be helpful to do so! You can read the posts here and here!
The question being addressed in this post:
“Will I be supported and encouraged to engage in the church if I tell my story?”
The question above is the one we are asking, but there is a broader question that must be asked first. Though we can do nothing to change the past, it is important to consider the impact a different “choice” would have made. I placed the word choice in quotation marks because, for many women, there was no legitimate choice. This includes those women who had the decision made for them and/or were coerced.
If we could go back in time and imagine that a woman (or teenager) might have had a choice, these were likely the options:
Decide to go through with the pregnancy (and either keep the baby or allow the baby to be adopted by another family).
Have the abortion (and tell no one or choose to tell family and/or friends).
There seem to be two choices, yet there are so many parts to each one and multiple factors within each possibility. Women need a village of support that helps them consider all the options. Often, the only person helping to make these decisions is the father of the child.
Note: While some fathers want the pregnancy to continue and are committed to caring for the child (and are sometimes overruled), this was not the case for the women who talked to me.
Women must feel safe enough to reach out to others for support—a strong vocal stance against abortion can close the doors to many conversations that might offer options, support, and hope for continuing the pregnancy.
The study conducted by Lifeway Research points out that the church is often not a place where women feel safe to reach out for help.
“Women likely haven’t told people at their church because most don’t see the church or the people there as safe and feel they will be judged, not loved. Fewer than half of women who have had abortion[s] believe the churches are a safe place to talk about pregnancy options (38%), give accurate advice about pregnancy options (30%), are prepared to help women with their decisions about unwanted pregnancies (41%).”
The fear of judgment is an underlying theme in my conversations with women. The reality is that when it comes to living out their lives in the church, it matters little which option they choose. They will be judged. Once again, the research study confirms this.
“Two in 3 women who’ve had an abortion say church members judge single women who are pregnant (65%) and are more likely to gossip about a woman considering abortion than help her understand her options (64%).”
“Women are twice as likely to say they expect to receive or did receive a judgmental reaction from the church compared to a caring one (33% to 16%), or a condemning reaction over a loving one (26% to 13%).”
Even choosing to continue the pregnancy does not change this. Women have told me that there are few things more uncomfortable than being a single woman with a child in the church—no matter how that occurs. It is challenging when the very places that pressure women not to terminate pregnancies also find it difficult to provide non-judgmental compassion in tangible ways. What would this look like? I will explore this topic in Saturday’s McMusing.
A woman’s life in the church will be affected no matter what path she takes—to either terminate or continue the pregnancy. While listening to stories, I was stunned that churches are still publicly disciplining or excommunicating young pregnant women. I am thankful for the churches that have moved beyond the mindset that leads to this practice. It does not align with how Jesus interacted with women.
Either being a single mother or sharing a story of abortion—no matter the circumstances—most often diminishes a woman’s options for serving in the church. This is true in churches that ordain or do not ordain women. The road to participating in any form of ministry will not be an easy one. I have observed this in church after church. It appears to be a stain that cannot be overcome.
Taking all of this into consideration, remaining silent after an abortion does provide a layer of protection. The women who choose to do so suffer in silence and seldom access professional help in processing the impact of their abortion experience. Every sermon, meme, and judgmental comment—especially during election seasons—affirms that remaining silent was the correct choice.
Is this what we intended as a church? I think not. In our efforts to save the lives of babies, we completely missed all the opportunities to support the women who sit silently in the pews. There are better ways to reduce the number of abortions. Convincing women that remaining silent is the safest choice—intentionally or unintentionally—is not one of them.
Recognizing how assumptions can harm those we are called to serve will enable us to shift the conversations. For this to be possible, faith communities must begin to view the difficult circumstances that surround an abortion with compassion that is not laced with assumptions and judgment. When women feel safe enough to speak their voices will help us do better.
My Personal Reflection
(See below for a personal statement and caution concerning sexual abuse content.)
I was raised in a denomination that ordained women. When I arrived at college, I planned to be a Christian education major and serve in the church. This is a remarkable desire for a teenager who had been sexually abused by church members multiple times since she was small. It is also a tribute to the example my father set as a pastor and the good people in the church who loved me well.
Even though the day of the abortion was lost in a dissociative fog, I subconsciously knew what had happened and changed my major. Actually, I completed a second major and gave up my plans for ordination. Despite the change in my plans, I lived out my life deeply involved in church ministries and Christian higher education. Many of those years were spent in spaces where women were not allowed to be ordained. At the time, that felt right to me though I wasn’t sure why.
At the age of fifty, I returned to my childhood denomination which provided the opportunity to be ordained. I refused even though I had met—or could easily meet—all the requirements. Why did I do this? Because I did not want to be interviewed by a District Advisory Board.
I had never lied about my story and knew, if queried, I would tell the truth about the circumstances that led to the abortion—even though I had no conscious memory of the abortion itself. Now I understand that I blamed myself for the abuse and did not deserve to be ordained.
What would the impact have been if I had told my story when I was nineteen or at any other point? Would it have been much different from living out my life as an unwed mother? Doubtfully, since both are so often viewed as unforgivable in church communities—something affirmed by those I interviewed.
The fact is that I didn’t tell my story. My fear that anyone would find out was so great that I subconsciously buried it for fifty years. The life I lived in the church and church-related higher education was the result of remaining silent. I should have been able to be honest about my story without it impacting my ability to fulfill God’s purpose in my life. I should have felt safe enough to tell my story. The impact of now telling my story is far greater than the years I was silent.
I would have been able to heal so much sooner.
Through the years, God was always with me. While working on the book, my author coach used the interview questions for a trial interview with me. At the end of the interview, she asked me what name I would like to use for the book. I said, “Isabel.” I had no idea why, but when we looked up the meaning, we found the various meanings all pointed to the fact that I had always been devoted to following God.
God knew every detail of my story and named me Isabel. I am truly amazed to have lived a life that included being a professor in two Bible colleges, working on staff at churches, and leading church trainings and women’s programs. It was a good life.
When I finally reached an age when it was possible to retire, God said, “Well done” and then gently led me to a therapist who provided the non-judgmental compassion for which I had longed for a lifetime. I am so grateful.
The comment option is turned off on this post, but if you would like to discuss the content or ask to share your story, you can message me!
Personal Note and Trigger/Dysregulation Caution: This series is informed by my personal story and therapeutic work to un-layer the shame imposed on my traumatized nineteen-year-old self who was groomed, sexually abused, and coerced into having an abortion. Trauma is the ongoing impact of a traumatic event—specifically when support is unavailable. This ongoing impact on my life will be the focus of the personal reflections that are included.