Published January, 2001

Janet remembers the day she changed her mind about abortion.  Her fingers held onto the knob of the car radio, and she threatened to turn it off.  “I had made up my mind about abortion when I was in college in the early 70’s, and after that I never wanted to talk about it.  My mind was made up.

“I figured I was in control.  If he said something that made me mad…I would just turn the radio off.”  Thirty minutes later, as pastor David Moore finished, Janet finally turned the radio off and sat in silence.  “I couldn’t believe it.  For 25 years, I had believed abortion was necessary, and it only took 30 minutes for him to make me change my mind.”

January 22, marks the anniversary of the U.S. Supreme Court 1973 decision Roe v. Wade.  “I thought they had made the right decision,” Janet remembers. In the almost 30 years since Roe v. Wade, more than 32 million legal abortions have been performed in the United States.  Experts estimate nearly 4,300 abortions are performed each day in the U.S.

These numbers only hint at the vast number of people involved in providing abortions.  “When I opened my mind that day in the car,” Janet says, “I started doing a lot of reading.  I know the news on television shows a lot of pro-choice people.  But I started reading stories about people who used to perform abortions.  They talked about their experiences, real experiences inside the operating room.”

One of the first doctors to perform abortions was Bernard N. Nathanson, M.D.  He tells about his decision to perform abortions in several movies and books.  At the time of Roe v. Wade the medical community maintained that the fetus was simply a “blob of tissue.”

However, as Dr. Nathanson explains in his ground-breaking 1983 film The Silent Scream, technology changed all of this.  Doctors could see into the womb and observe the fetus.  Using ultrasound, in The Silent Scream Dr. Nathanson pointed out the features of a living fetus and described his movements in the womb–kicks, yawns, and scratching.

The movie then allowed the viewer for the first time to see the fetus react to the abortionist’s suction tube inside the mother.  The baby jerked away from the metal instrument and tried wildly to escape, even as the tube began to tear apart the baby and suck it out of the womb.

Dr. Nathanson quit performing abortions and became one of the earliest and most vocal pro-life spokesmen.  Even the surgeon who performed the film’s abortion, viewing it later it with Dr. Nathanson, was so moved by what he saw that he vowed never to perform another abortion.

They highlight the power of technology to reveal the truth about the fetus.  Shari Richard is an expert in high resolution ultra-sound technology who knows abortion first-hand.  As a college student and pregnant, Shari decided to have an abortion.  She asked her doctor if it was a baby.  “He said it was only a blob of tissue.”

Years later, as a student in the ultrasound program Shari remembers, “That’s when I first saw active little babies with fingers and toes.”  She was overwhelmed by guilt over her own abortion.

Today, Shari operates Sound Wave Images.  Today’s technology, with better equipment and computers, allows clearer images of the baby.  “We can even see the heart beating three weeks after conception.  And when you realize the seven-week-old fetus is less than one inch long and we can see tiny fingers, toes and eyes, it’s incredible.”

Dr. Nathanson and Shari Richard are only two of the many medical and clinic personnel who knew abortion first-hand and have now become pro-life.  “I know it’s not the popular story that media likes to tell,” Janet says.

She thanks David Moore for his open and compassionate radio message on abortion.  “Thirty years is a long time to have an opinion,” Janet smiles softly.  “I thought I was open-minded because I called myself pro-choice.  I’m glad I kept the radio on that day.  I’ve learned a lot since then.”

____________________

The Hand of God, Bernard Nathanson, MD, 1996.  The co-founder of the National Abortion Rights Action League examines and explains his change from an abortion provider to the most visible leader in the pro-life movement.

She was my mother.  And more.  We were best friends.  It had nothing to do with the years she shared grandmothering my two children.  It was more than our early morning conversations about stocks and bonds, as I sipped coffee and watched her cook biscuits and southern gravy.

Our friendship extended beyond the family gossip we rehashed each time we were together, as if we were telling these stories for the first time.  Our friendship simply was.  Like the oceans, pine trees, and lava rock, it needed no reason.  Ours was a friendship of quiet, silent, absolute love.  Friendship and love that stood rock solid.

Mother was a mover of mountains.  Literally.  Each summer, at our mountain cabin, she loaded three rambunctious dogs into a Toyota Jeep and bumped over rugged roads up mountain slopes.  Heavy gray cowhide workman’s gloves protected her tiny hands, as she loaded up piles of sharp black lava rock, careful to leave small spaces around the rocks inside the Jeep for her dogs.  Then she turned the Toyota around.

At home again, three dogs tumbled out of the Jeep while Mother headed for the kitchen.  She would open the fridge, pop the tab on an ice cold can of Miller Lite, and walk outside to survey the next section of wall to be raised.  Year by year, stone by stone, she built a low wall of dark, rich rock stacked around the wide circular driveway.

Mother matched her persistence with an equal measure of patience.  She was in no hurry.  Moving rocks allowed her to enjoy brisk sunny days in the mountains.  It gave her an excuse to tour back mountain roads with her dogs, and it provided a reason to reward her energies with cold beer.  Why hurry?

If she could push and tug rocks into position with fierce determination, she could also coax a number 10 short needle through a plump quilt with the greatest of finesse.  What delightful hours we spent together bent over a black nine-patch quilt, sewing, and discussing ways to make our stitches even and tiny.  We never hurried.  Running small stitches along seam lines was simply our excuse for passing time together in constructive, quiet contemplation.

I never worried about Mother.  When my father died of lung cancer brought on by 45 years of smoking, she showed us all the stuff of which she was made.  She nursed Daddy at home to his death.  I went with her to the mortuary to make arrangements for his cremation, but a week later, when I asked about returning to the mortuary with her, she told me not to worry.  Coming home with Daddy was something she preferred to do on her own.

Friends suggested to her that she settle in close by her children, but Mother would have nothing to do with that idea.  Daddy was gone, but she wasn’t.  She was determined to live the best of life.

Within the year, Mother sold the family home my father had designed 25 years earlier and moved to the country.  She was ready to move on.  Regrets were useless, if there were any.  She never said.  She simply knew what she must do.  She was my Rock of Gibraltar.

Mother knew how to take care of herself.  At 5:00 a.m. every morning, the sun still below the rise of the hill, she put on her swimsuit in 40-degree weather and drove through the darkness to the community pool for water aerobics.  A tremendous cook, proud of her vegetable garden, she was always ready at a moment’s notice to whip up a delectable stir-fry.  With her own mother approaching 90 years of age, the future looked bright.

I certainly didn’t expect her to be struck overnight with a brain tumor.  Like the jeep running into her beloved rock wall, cancer knocked her feet out from under her, making her an instant invalid.  Confused about the order of pills and meals, and unable to read her stock reports, she depended on us for every personal need.

Good fortune provided a leave from my teaching job, and I threw myself into every moment of Mother’s day, grateful to be useful and to be sharing her final months.  We cried together for the first few days.  But as in all things we had shared in the past, we knew when to move on.  Like lava rocks, secured by jagged, rough points set into the grooves of other lava rocks in a growing wall, our love was solid.  Unmovable.

I moved into Mother’s home and became her cook, her nurse, her accountant, advocate, priest, chauffeur, scribe, and aide.  She always showed appreciation for the Malto-Meal prepared to her taste and the proper ratios of instant coffee and cream.

Even the hardest of experiences gave us reasons to celebrate life together.  What a victory when we found a way to lift her from the low couch where she spent the day!  She and I developed a tight bear hug, with her toes resting on my feet and our faces pressed tightly, that allowed me to swing her into her wheelchair–an adventure that always ended with giggles and salutes.

I chased down medications and learned nursing duties I never thought myself capable of.  In the daily routine that evolved, I watched the direction of the room fan– making sure to cool her without chilling her, kept the radio tuned to a soothing station, opened and closed window blinds as each day brightened and darkened, learned her favorite evening television shows, and made sure we went outside on the patio as often as she could comfortably go.

When Mother was no longer able to speak, I sat by her bedside waiting for those infrequent moments when she would open her eyes and I could smile a hello to her.  And finally, one early morning, with a faint pink halo outlining the mountains outside her window and Mother laying in my arms, I shared her final breath.  She was gone.

After the first busy days of change, silence settled in.  In my despair at having to move on without Mother, walking through the silence of her empty house, I faced the same loneliness I now knew she experienced during her five years of widowhood.   Unexpectedly, regrets surfaced, taking control, breaking down the wall of secure love I had never questioned until now.

How many lonely nights after Daddy’s death had Mother suffered in silence?  How many times had I called to receive her comfort during my personal trials, unaware of her own need for comfort?

Were the last four months at her bedside truly an act of selfless dedication?  Only now, able to reflect alone upon those months, did I have the courage to admit that sitting at her bedside was what I had needed.  Had Mother really wanted privacy?  Had I been too much in her face?

Regrets attacked even the simplest acts of love.  Over and over, I told her, “I love you.”  Over and over, my voice conveyed the sense of loss I felt.  One morning, in a burst of final effort, Mother inhaled enough air to expel a forceful, “I Love You,” her reassurance to me.  But it wasn’t enough.  I hung on.  Oh, that I had been able to rest in the quiet certainty of her love that had surrounded me for more than 40 years.

And some regrets are just too much to handle.  On her final morning, Mother opened her eyes in terror.  The nurse was telling me she would make the trip to the pharmacy for the morphine.  Mother knew morphine.  She knew it marked the final stage of the same journey through cancer she had shared with my father as his nurse, a journey she was repeating in every detail as my patient.  I promised her, “Mother, I won’t give you morphine unless I ask you, unless you say it’s okay.”  Her eyes softened with gratitude, and we sat in silence.

How was I to know I would have to break that promise within 12 hours?  Where were the doctors and nurses at midnight when I really needed them?  Why did I have to be alone to decide?  But I was.  I squeezed her hand and whispered, “Mother, squeeze my hand if you can answer me.”  In despair, my hand waited.  I knew I would have to do what I never thought I could, give Mother the medicine that would take her away from me forever.

In the darkness, I leaned to her ear, “Mother, I can’t ask you.  You can’t squeeze my hand.  Mother, please forgive me.  I love you.  I can’t bear to see you hurt anymore.  I don’t know what else to do.  I wish you could tell me, but you can’t.  I love you.”

The nurses who came later used all of their experience to tell me I had done the right thing.  But that didn’t stop my regrets.

Life without her wasn’t easy, a succession of empty spots where quilting and bear hugs used to be.  But as Mother taught me, time moves on and so must we.  The family cabin in the mountains needed painting, and when neighbors called to inform us fierce March winds had removed a row of shingles, I packed the van and headed north.

As I pulled into the drive, I surveyed the lava rock wall.  No happy dogs ran up to greet me, no call from the kitchen door invited me in for Miller Time.  I looked up to the roof and counted the bare spots where shingles had broken loose, making a mental note of additional needed repairs:  bird holes at the upstairs window, a broken antenna, and wood sorely in need of paint.

I looked down to the ground.  Old, dead sunflower pods laid soggy in the patches of melting snow.  Stepping from the car, I followed the sunflower trail along the lava wall and collected the pods to dry.  I stopped.  There at my feet, a sign of Mother’s long absence, was a lonely lava rock.

Slowly, I bent down for the rock to set it back on Mother’s wall.  But it tottered.  The wall had settled into a crooked list, and I knew it wouldn’t meet with her approval.  I knew she would insist on removing this section of the wall to rebuild it properly.

I dropped to my knees.  The breeze brushed against my cheeks.  I looked up to watch the pines bending against the bright blue skies.

Down with the rocks and up again, I matched each jagged lava edge to form a straight vertical line, saving the tiniest rock for last.  It would fill a small gap to make the top of the wall flat.  Reaching for this final rock, a sharp gust of wind caught the sand and sprayed it across my face.  I raised my eyes and blinked.  Tears washed away the fine grains.  In the quiet of the crisp mountain air, my hair sailing across my face, I heard her voice return.  Quiet, sure, and filled with love, she spoke to me.

“Jane, it’s all right.  You did the only thing you could do.”  A tear fell on my knee, making a dark blue circle. “Jane,” she whispered with the breeze, “you did your best.  You did everything you could.”  And like the mountains she had moved, my heart turned around, leaving regrets behind.

The wind quieted down.  A bluebird sailed across the drive, landing in a low juniper bush.  He cocked his head at me and watched as I reached once again for the last lava rock.  Carefully, I put it in its place.  My hand rested upon the top of the wall, feeling for the cracks with the tips of my fingers.  Still on my knees, the light breeze began again, and my eyes followed around the curve of the low lava wall as I bowed my head in thanks.

__________________

A Cup of Comfort for Mothers & Daughters: Stories that celebrate a very special bond, Colleen Sell, ed., contributor, “Lava Love,” 2002.

Talking with
HOWARD BELL

Published July, 2000

Howard Bell is a man who’s going places.  This may be a surprise to the doctors who diagnosed his illness over 25 years ago.  But it’s absolutely no surprise to anyone who meets Howard.  He’s going places, and you’d better keep up.  Or just move aside.

Actually, his childhood doctors might consider Howard a living miracle.  Born on November 25, 1972, he was the third child for Jackie and Paula Bell.  Paula, a mother of two active toddlers, became concerned when Howard didn’t show the normal signs of physical and muscular development.  Finally, at ten months of age, it was clear to see his situation was serious.  In one of her life’s most difficult moments, she took Howard to a hospital in Columbus, Ohio.  But rather than answers, she got more questions.

After only a few hours, the doctors told her they wanted to keep Howard for a few days.  Three days later, they had their answer.  Howard had Infantile Spinal Muscular Atrophy.  He wasn’t expected to get better.  In fact, he wasn’t expected to live very long.

Even as Jackie and Paula left the hospital that day, they “joined in prayer, led by the Holy Spirit….God, this is Your child.  You gave him to us, and as long as You allow him to live, we are going to thank You God, we will raise this child in the fear and admonition of You.”[1]

Twenty seven years later, the twinkle in his eyes and the energy of his voice make Howard a living testament to God’s power.  He has already written a book about his early life, More Than a Conqueror.  Not only has he survived the effects of his disease, but he has survived jumping over cars and flying refrigerators.  And no matter how little time was left in a life consumed by hospital visits and surgeries, he managed to keep up with school work, graduating as valedictorian from South Mountain Community College.  This was only the beginning.

Today, with his LSAT test scores in hand, Howard soon plans to enter law school.  Anticipating the rigors of stiff competition in school only intensifies his desire to push ahead.  He knows what he’s getting into.

For the past several years, Howard worked with his attorney to pursue corporate implementation of the American Disabilities Act, signed by President Bush.  He became an expert in the various requirements of the ADA.  Businesses sought his assistance in evaluating their establishments for “friendliness” to the physically disabled.  And he served on a committee for the city of Tempe, making certain that street crossings and sidewalks all provide adequate access and safety for the disabled.

This is a lot of life to pack into twenty seven years, if you have full use of your body.  But it is God’s special miracle for Howard, whose body weighs only 45 pounds.  Although he once had enough muscular coordination to play the piano and paint, the disease has taken most of his muscles away.  Confined to a wheelchair, he controls his chair with a switch directly in front of his chest and feels fortunate that a surgery years earlier made it possible for him to breath on his own.  But he’s not complaining.  He doesn’t have time.

Howard’s determination and energy certainly have a lot to do with a very special person, his mother Paula.  She has had plenty of reason to despair over the years.  “I’ve been depressed a lot of times.  You know. Is Howard going to live this year?  Is Howard going to live to five?  Is Howard going to live to twelve?”

Howard laughs with her, “Or if I’m going to let him live?  Through naptime?”

Paula chuckles, too, a sign of her own brand of grit and determination.  “Just ‘cause he’s disabled, doesn’t make life any different….Well, I’ve never not allowed him to do whatever he thought he could do.  If you think you can do it, go for it, boy.  And you know, he has.  Amusement park people would say, ‘I’m sorry, Madam.  We can’t, for insurance purposes.’  I’d go, ‘I’m not going to do anything to your insurance company.  This kid wants to be able to ride a roller coaster.  I’ll sign an affidavit, saying if he flies off the roller coaster, it’s not your fault.  It’s ‘cause he didn’t hang on.’”

Good-naturedly, Howard interrupts, “She tried to kill me on the flying XXX,” and one immediately pictures both of them strapped together in a whirling tea cup, ‘dying’ in fits of laughter, while amusement park employees watch in amazement.

More seriously, Paula continues, “but the fact is, why can’t he try what he wants to do?  Just because he’s in a wheelchair or he doesn’t have some muscles?  If you say, ‘I would like to,…’ then go for it.  You would if you were whole.  You understand what I’m saying?  So why differentiate?”

They both count their blessings.  Five years ago, God came to Howard at night in a dream.  “That night I came to realize that though the whole earth may reject me, my heavenly Father has accepted me and made me His own….Realizing that we have value regardless of whether we are accepted enables us to defeat rejection and live victoriously.  From that day onward I have matured spiritually and emotionally.”[2]

Some of Howard’s greatest joys these days come from sharing his passion for life, both as a lay preacher and as an inspirational speaker for teens.  God willing, he plans to expand his ministry for high school students in the coming years.

He speaks at high school assemblies and passes on an important message for today’s youth.  “Success is not measured by how much you’ve achieved, but rather by how you achieve what you achieve.  And I live by that philosophy.”  Howard uses statistics on what’s going on in the lives of teens to talk with them.  We look at “what society says is going to happen to them, and then we turn around and talk about what we can do to have success.  The whole slogan is, when people look at me, I want them to say, ‘YICES, Yes, I can experience success.  If Howard can, I can.’

“I love doing it.  I do a whole workshop with the kids.  I can either do an assembly or I can do an individual class.  I like to talk about different acronyms. I believe everyone should have a CALL.  The word CALL stands for Charge about Living Life, something that you know you’re living your life for.  It can change.  But if you haven’t got a CALL for today, then you’re going nowhere.  You have no reason to go anywhere.”

Yes, Howard Bell is a man who is going places.  The best part of this is that he is working to take today’s youth with him.  The passion of his love for them shines bright.

“A lot of people have asked me whether I found it socially difficult growing up as a person with a disability.  My answer has always been the same:  Everyone has struggles, and we all need assistance with some things.  No one is completely self-sufficient.  That’s the way God planned it. Once God’s hand touches you, you will never be the same.”[3]

_________________________

In addition to speaking in valley high schools, Howard also structures presentations for junior high and college students.  Contact him at More Than a Conqueror ministries, phone 480-829-0601.