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Five–year–old Barbara sat at the head of the party table, wrapped up tight in a yellow taffetta dress and frowning across the room at her mother and Miss Sibyl and the other lady, who kept talking talking talking instead of bringing over the presents. "I'm going to have a temper," she thought. Her friend Clara never had tempers because she was special.

Right at this moment Clara sat peacefully with her hands folded in front of her, smiling. Clara had turned six two weeks ago, but she and Barbara were celebrating their birthdays together at Barbara's house on account of their mothers being so close (also because Clara's mom was tired from just having a big saving–babies meeting at her house). Clara wore thick little glasses that wrapped around her head. She had a hearing aid, too, and she still couldn't talk as much as other six– year–olds, even though she'd been practicing a lot. She'd had an accident when she was born, and it was a bad doctor's fault, not hers (it wasn't that she was dumber than Barbara, or that she disobeyed or anything like that). Clara said she was scared sometimes about going to the doctor, but her mother told her that bad doctors didn't treat big children and that he lived a long way from Maryland, anyway.

Barbara and Clara were excited because Barbara's new baby sister Annika had already had the very same kind of accident! The bad doctor had done it to her, too. She had a little pink cast on one of her feet, and every now and then it poked up in the air over her fluffy stroller and waved around like a balloon. That made Clara and Barbara giggle. Clara had wanted a sister so much, only her mother didn't have her a daddy to get her one, so how would she get one unless a bad doctor did an accident on another? But Barbara didn't like the baby thatmuch anyway and was pretty happy to share.

Down the two sides of the birthday table sat fourteen other children; if Rose had been here, she'd have recognized a few of them from the weekend meeting. They were children of staff members and volunteers. She might not have noticed that one little boy was the very child she'd seen in the picture at Joseph Corbin's office (the child who'd carried that ugly sign at the pro–life rally). His mother now stood in the corner with Barbara's mother and Sibyl, chattering rapidly with her front teeth propped on her bottom lip.

She was passionate about something: anybody could have seen that. She wore a lace cap and a black skirt with a plain white blouse. Corbin had been wrong in guessing that she was a Mennonite. She and her husband belonged to no particular religious group. They had formed their own church and adopted ten children, who accounted for most of their congregation. She'd just come back from a protest in Iowa and had photographs to show—pictures of flowers and cows but also photographs of herself being arrested for crossing a clinic buffer zone in order to talk to a young pregnant woman going in.

Sibyl knew that her brother Jim and Jenny and a lot of other mainstreamers thought of people like this as "extremists" or "on the fringe." She had lately decided, though, that there was no such thing as "a fringe" when it came to fighting abortion. Talking about a "fringe" implied that the anti–abortion movement was like a banner, hemmed up with clear borders except where the occasional fray broke out. But Sibyl had begun to see that the movement was a living thing, and that it would grow where and how it needed to in order one day to protect all the little ones like Clara and Annika, as well as to make sense of the loss of the seventeen million—seventeen million!—other children already dead at the hands of the enemy (otherwise known as doctors, tissue harvesters, liberal lawmakers, atheist intellectuals, media stars … ) No law could stop the movement from growing, no human outcry could silence it, because God was at the root.

In the last six months Sibyl had experienced no less than five supernatural visions. Stretched out on her bed at night, alone, listening to the beat of her own heart, she had repeated this prayer: "Lord, protect your precious ones through me, Lord protect your precious ones through me, protect your precious ones through me." She had always been a rational woman for the most part, in spite of believing in tongues and healing and the other more exotic gifts of the Spirit. So the first vision had surprised and shocked her—an angel coming down and touching her forehead with a white hot finger.

The angel said, "Their cries have reached my ears. You must go."

Sibyl had opened her eyes from sleep praising God and singing a song she'd never heard before—more like an old hymn than a praise chorus. The same song came to her four more times in her dreams. Where had it come from if not from God?

Sibyl hadn't said anything about the visions to Jim or Jenny. She didn't think they'd take her seriously, but so what if they didn't? She was beginning to lean more in the direction of the woman with the lace cap. This was a time when America needed prophets and visionaries, and every time she looked at her little daughter Clara, she felt the angel's hot touch all over again. How far would she go to save another child like Clara? Was there any time to lose? Weren't there so many Claras right now dying by scalpel, by saline? Could she afford to waste time in conversation, in legal battles, in politics?

Sibyl shuddered. She hadn't even been listening to the two women talking next to her. They were discussing an article promoting abortion rights in a recent magazine— how the author had mysteriously disappeared just before the article appeared.

"I think God took him away," said the woman in the lace cap. "God's making him an example before our nation of what happens to people who stand against His will."

"But if God works like that," said Barbara's mother, "why won't He take away all these abortionists?"

"Their time is coming," said Sibyl. "I know that it is."

From the other side of the room, Barbara shouted, "Hurry up, mommy! Me and Clara want our birthday presents! Now!"

"I'm coming, Sweetheart … It's really frightening how the media gets involved. This man's uncle is Jim Colfax—"

"No," said Sibyl.

"Yes. He's been all over the news grandstanding about abortion rights."

"I'd like to abort him right out of America," said the woman in the lacecap."

"Amen."

"Send him to China," said Sibyl, looking over at the little Chinese girl at the birthday table (adopted from an orphanage in Beijing). "He'd feel right at home there."

"It's hard to be patient," said the woman in the lace cap, fiercely. She looked back at the birthday table. "All the anti–baby people, all the anti–children people and the infanticides and sex abusers and hateful murderers everywhere. Sometimes I'd like to see them all wiped off the planet. But it's not up to me. Good thing, too. I wouldn't have any mercy."

"Mommy!" shouted Barbara. "Now!"

"I'm coming," said her mother. "Excuse me." She headed over to collect the presents. Sibyl narrowed her eyes at the other woman. "So would you ever consider—? You know."

"Something more aggressive?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. My husband and I have talked. He's doubtful. Patriotism was always an important thing to him. But I guess I've lost mine. I mean this isn't—

"It's not America anymore," said Sibyl, shaking her head.

"No. And even some people who say they're Christians. But they care more about Satan's civil rights than children."

"Oh, I'm starting to think the devil's on the Supreme Court."

"What about you, Sibyl? Have you thought about it."

"Jim would oppose it. He believes in the law so strongly."

"How can he? At the foundations of our country, maybe. When the law was based on Scripture."

Sibyl put her hand to her forehead. "I think the time may have come for civil disobedience. But Jim wants us to stay within the law. I don't have a husband. I feel I have to respect him."

"Does he respect God?"

"He's been to seminary, after all."

"Who does he preach to, Rose? You told me yourself it was just college students and liberals going to that church now."

"I shouldn't have criticized him. It's terrible that I said that."

"It's important to let people know where your loyalty lies." The woman narrowed her eyes. "Let's talk about this sometime soon."

"All right."

"At my house."

"Yes."

The group gathered around the birthday table and sang to the children, then went out for a pony ride on one of Sibyl's horses, brought over for the day. The morning sun lit up Barbara's yellow dress like a daffodil.

Her expression, though, stayed sour. Things weren't going well. The pony wouldn't eat the carrot she jammed against its long teeth. It flounced away from her, but then ate Clara's apple happily a minute later. Then a large bee appeared in the yard, and that was it: Barbara rushed inside screaming. Once she'd calmed down, she went to the kitchen window and saw Clara riding happily on the pony with everybody smiling at her.

"I hate her," she said. "I hate Clara."

Barbara's mother saw her looking out the window. "Come back out, Sweetheart! The bee is gone now!"

Barbara considered, but then backed away like she hadn't heard and and sat down on a couch with her arms crossed. She did want to ride the horse. But what if she didn't ride as well as Clara? What if the horse hated her and threw her off? She decided she wasn't going anywhere until somebody came in and begged her to go back out. She got herself another piece of cake and sat down again in a rocking chair beside Annika's stroller. Stupid baby just slept all the time, no fun at all. Surely, any second the back door would open and her mom or Clara or somebody would walk in and say, "Oh come on now! You're the birthday girl! The most important one!" When would they come?

She watched the clock, the second hand going around and around and around the circle. They were never coming. Then she noticed then that the baby monitor was on. She scooted close to it and said, not too quietly, "I guess I'll just sit here all by myself. I guess nobody cares about me."

As soon as she'd said those words, the doorbell rang. "They heard me!" she thought. "They're coming from around front to surprise me!" Maybe all of them at the same time! She gave the sleeping baby a told–you–so look, then put on the sourest face she could think of and stormed down the hall to the front door. Now they'd be sorry. She threw the door open with a loud moan, only to see her mom's friend Miss Jenny standing there with a big fat lady she'd never seen before.

"Hi Barbara," said Miss Jenny, smiling down nervously.

Barbara made her voice gloomy and small. "Hi." She flicked her eyes to the ground.

"Is your mommy home?"

"Yes. She's in the backyard. With Clara and her friends."

"What's going on? Are you having a party?"

Barbara sighed. "It's my birthday."

"Oh! Well, happy birthday!"

"Yeah, right." Barbara pulled the door open to let them in and then slammed it behind them. She walked ahead back to the living room, swinging her arms, and threw herself down in the rocking chair again.

Miss Jenny and the fat lady came into the room slowly, looking around. Then Miss Jenny went to the back door and the fat lady walked straight over to the baby stroller and stared down at Annika.

"That's just my sister," said Barbara.

"Your sister?"

"She's new. We adopted her."

"What's her name?"

"Annika. She's just a baby, she doesn't do anything."

The fat lady didn't answer. Barbara waited while Miss Jenny opened the back door. A second later, a few of the grownups streamed back in, talking about the mosquitoes and pollen and heat. Not a word about her.

Barbara folded her arms right under her chin and fixed her eyes on her mother, who went over to stand by Miss Jenny.

"Sorry I didn't call," said Jenny. "I was passing by. I just wanted to drop in and see how little Annika's doing."

"Fine," said Barbara's mother.

"She's doing fine," said Clara's mother, Sibyl, in a forceful, cheery voice that made Barbara tense up.

"Eating well? Sleeping well?"

"That's the only thing she does is sleep," said Barbara. The grownups tittered.

"Probably a good thing," said Jenny. "Hope you didn't all mind that I brought a friend with me. This is Nancy Jackson."

"Another photographer?" said Sibyl in an icy voice.

Jenny laughed. "Baby nurse. Nancy, this is Sibyl Westford. My co–leader. And this is Annika's mother, Dottie, and that's Rachel and Tammy … I won't give you everybody else's name. You'll never remember."

"So you're a baby nurse," said Barbara's mother. "I could have used you this last week, I'll tell you."

"It's not quite what you think," said Nancy Jackson quietly, still looking in the stroller. "Your baby is very pretty."

"She really does sleep all the time. Maybe you know. Do you think fifteen hours a day is extreme for a two month–old?"

"I don't think so," said Nancy Jackson. "I think she looks healthy. There is nothing wrong with this baby." She said the words as if she were arguing with someone.

"Would you like to hold her?"

There was a long pause, and then she cleared her throat and stepped back. "No. She certainly is beautiful, though. I think you're doing a good job."

"Are you sure you don't want to hold her? She won't wake up."

"I don't need to hold her. I just like to look at her."

"I guess you see babies all the time."

"Well, yeah."

"But they're all different aren't they?"

"No two are the same," said Jenny, looking over at Barbara, smiling.

"Every child counts. That's what this movement's all about. Every child is special."

"Yeah, right," said Barbara again. Miss Jenny made her almost as nervous as Clara's mother. The grown–ups tittered again.

"Honey," said her mother. "Why don't you go out and play with Clara and the children?"

"I hate Clara!" Barbara suddenly shrieked. "I hate her and she's stupid! And this is my birthday!"

"Barbara!"

Right away, she knew she was in trouble. Miss Sibyl, who'd been staring at the fat nurse, whipped her sharp old face around and looked straight down at her. Barbara shrank into the rocking chair.

"What did you say about my Clara?" said Sibyl, talking between her teeth.

"Nothing."

"How could you say such a mean, evil thing about a special child like that?"

Barbara started to whimper. She'd been trying to get attention. She didn't want it anymore.

"I'm sorry."

"She's just a little girl, Sibyl," said Jenny. "We've interrupted her party. We should be leaving."

"Yes," said the nurse, and drew her eyes from the stroller. "I really want to go."

But Sibyl wouldn't, or couldn't let it go. She kept her eyes on Barbara.

"I should hope she's sorry. It's a very bad thing to say about a child that's more precious to God than you'll ever know. Ever."

"Mommy!" said Barbara.

"Sibyl—for God's sake," said Jenny, "listen to yourself."

"I want to go," said the nurse

"Sweetheart," Barbara's mother said to her, "why don't you go rest for a minute and look at a book or something?" Barbara got up and hurried around the corner into the dining room. She knew she deserved it. She'd said a hateful thing about her very best friend. She began to sob. She could hear the adults talking behind her as she climbed the stairs to her room.

"Sibyl," said Miss Jenny. "I know you love Clara. But that was disgusting. Really."

"It's none of your business."

"Please," said Barbara's mother. "Let's not argue."

"You don't think it's my business to defend children?" said Jenny. "I'd say that's exactly what my business is."

Sibyl spoke firmly. "Anyone who offends one of these little ones, it's better for him that a millstone be hung around his neck and he be cast into the sea."

"It's all right you two," said Barbara's mother. "Please!"

"We all offend sometimes," said Jenny. "We've all hurt innocent people. But you think you have to punish the whole world."

"Jenny," said Sibyl, her voice rising, "every time I show a little passion, you try to stop me. Every time I speak from my heart, you shut me up. I've had enough of it! I'm tired of moderation."

"Obviously."

"You can't fight a battle and leave people feeling good all the time."

"I fight at least as hard as you do, Sibyl. Usually harder."

"But I put my heart into it. I fight abortion with everything I have."

"Yeah, even against kindergarteners."

Sibyl's voice turned to a hiss. "I'm going to get Clara and we're leaving. Thank you, everyone."

"Oh, but the presents," said Barbara's mother.

"I'll get them later. Goodbye."

The back door opened and slammed shut. Barbara ran to her room and watched over the driveway from her window as Clara and her mother drove away, pulling their horse trailer behind them. They seemed to have forgotten the pony. Barbara missed Clara already. She could see her friend waving as the truck went around a sharp corner at the top of the hill.

Copyright © 2001 by the author or Christianity Today/Books & Culture Magazine.
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