“Have you guys heard the news?” Maggie (name changed) unwrapped the scarf from around her neck and patted her flat belly. “Preggers.” It was around 30 degrees outside, and her cheeks were splashed pink from the Indiana wind.
She had discovered earlier that week, after missing a period and taking the test. “I kind of knew already. My boobs and my lower back have been killing me for a while.” She shrugged.
My girlfriend Ali and I exchanged a surprised look. Our forks, dotted with pasta sauce, dangled identically, flaccidly, in our hands. She was quicker than me to gain her composure, and turned to address her best friend.
“What are you going to do?” Unnecessary question, really — a conversational life vest, used when you’re sputtering for something to say. We knew the answer. Maggie, a 22-year-old college senior with no intention of bringing a child into the world yet, was going to have an abortion. She told us that she had already made up her mind; she had even determined the time, date and location. A better question might have been, “How are you going to pay for it?”
She answered that one before we had a chance to ask. “We’re having a party Friday to raise money,” Maggie said. “You guys are obviously invited.”
An abortion party. For the price of whatever we were willing to donate, she explained, we could partake of baked goods, beer and dancing.
Dark, crushing depression envelopes me as I realize how deeply crass depraved and disconnected from the sanctity of life our culture has become. Two things strike you immediately; Maggie’s vacuous indifference to the life within her and the celebration-of-impending-death mindset that would lead people to hold a rave in its honor. Pray for these people.