SMALL

My dog came into the porch light, her mouth holding a critter. “Drop it,” I commanded. She’s good this way. Tinkerbell isn’t a vacuum-eating sort of animal. She likes her organic tidbits, bathed in hot water, steeped for five minutes.

A baby squirrel plopped onto the brick, crying out in pain as it hit. Most every household has a designated critter handler. I’m mine. I have ‘shewed’ black snakes, carted baby bunnies into the woods, rescued stunned birds who’d hit the windows and nursed them back to fly. But a baby squirrel? That required round-the-clock feeding. Skills I didn’t possess.

I tucked the hairless little critter in a shoe box, covered it for warmth, and closed the lid, putting a book on it so the cats wouldn’t snatch it. I prayed to God to take it out of its misery, figuring it would pass in the night.

Next morning, I headed off to sidewalk prayer at the local women’s clinic. I was checked-in to ensure I was a safe individual and given a code of conduct, including no heckling or engaging with the women clients. No signs with incendiary language were permitted. No crossing onto the public street near the clinic was allowed by my ‘side,’ although I pay taxes to make sure it’s paved. 

My one purpose was to gather with others to pray. Pray that the women might reconsider their choice, might consider an ultrasound, might consider a ‘pause’ before choosing a path that is irreversible. Our prayers mirrored our beliefs, saying “there’s another way.”

Someone handed me a replica of a ‘fetus’ at 20-weeks. I held the tiny model, marveling over the development. It was a baby, only not as big as a birthed one. Her heart would have started beating two weeks ago. She had all her organs, though not fully developed, as well as defined eyelids, ears and lips. She only needed more time in her location. She needed only the opportunity of birth to grow into a four-year old.

At one point during our prayer, I glanced up to see three clinic volunteers, identified by their vests. I caught the eye of one young lady, and shuttered my own, so as not to breech any engagement boundaries. Yet we had that moment. Her eyes, my eyes. I was the zebra to her lion; she was the zebra to my lion. The chain-link fence between us served as the metaphoric divide in our beliefs.

After the walk, my eighteen-year old daughter, who is all things observant, all things animal, and really, all things orphan—as she was one herself not ten years ago—greeted me at the door. “The squirrel, Mom.” Yes, the squirrel. It hadn’t rained in weeks. The earth would make it hard to dig a grave. Could things every be easy?

I took the book off the box and opened the lid. “It’s still alive,” my Li shouted. Sure enough, the baby squirrel gave us a four-paw stretch to reiterate this point. “We’ve got to do something.”

I grabbed my cell and called the wildlife rescue, a connection I’d made when one bird wouldn’t revive as quickly as I’d have like.

“We’ll get the incubator ready,” the rescue worker said.  

Switching off the talk radio, we made the drive as quietly as we could. My truck seemed to hit every bump in the road, although I was eagle-eyed to avoid them for our tiny rescue. ‘His name is Mo.” Giving our squirrel a name occupied our minds for the forty-minute trip. “After the baby rescued by Pharaoh’s daughter.” Then in awe, Li added, “His mouth is moving.” 

I prayed he’d make it until we got to the rescue. “He made it through the night. That’s a good sign, right?” I asked the assistant. It helped to remember the little squirrel’s strength.

“Could be.” She handed me a clipboard. “Fill this out.”

“His name is Little Mo,” my daughter said.

“No puncture wounds. No external damage.” The rescue worker’s voice lowered. “Might be internal though.” 

She rushed Little Mo through a steel door. Our small one, so exquisite, so helpless, was beyond us now. Hopefully, he’d become the squirrel other squirrels would race up the oak. The squirrel who’d bring Shagbark hickory nuts onto the porch and leave the casing for this waiter to sweep off. He too just needed time to grow.

Praying for the rescue of tiny babies in vitro and a baby squirrel was too much for one day. It was too obvious. I eased into the truck with my daughter, who was adopted from China. It’s highly possible if her parents had had the means, she would have been aborted for being female. Another deep thought in a day filled with them. 

But shouldn’t we just, though? Shouldn’t we consider more thoroughly our beliefs and actions?

Somewhere along the way we have eliminated Sanctity of Life and sanctified the dark shadows called Choice. 

We have reduced the smallest of us as a right to keep, or a right to end. We have deemed the culmination of a fertilized egg as a malignancy. Worse still, we have taken ownership of a complex set of cells that should boggle our minds with its sheer design. 

Instead, we’ve decided we have the right to take another’s life and dumped he or she into the trash. 

No doubt, it is extremely hard raising a child you’ve invited into your world. How much harder one you did not? But what if we paused and wondered about the life of that child? What story might he or she live to tell? 

What story might be silenced because we’ve chosen to end that life? 

Since 1974, at least 65-million voices have been snuffed out. Voices we will not hear speak, sing or laugh. We have believed a lie, and that belief has robbed us of the most precious and priceless beings in our lives: babies. 

Dear God.