They sat in cold metal chairs, the woman's tears carving silent silver streams down her face. The cement walls and floors seemed only to magnify the bite of the mountain air and the wail of the weeping toddler who had just been carried away from them.
They did not want to let her go. But it was a very real choice between keeping her and watching her ribs grow more visible, her body more shrunken, her eyes more dull. At least now she could have a belly full of food instead of the intestines full of worms that took over her tiny frame.
The small cinder block building that housed this malnutrition center was found in a high-altitude, low-income village outside of Guatemala City. It was just one 30 minute, hairpin-curved bus ride outside the boom and brash in-your-face contrast between luxury and poverty that made up the country's capital. For months now, we'd been bringing teams of Americans there to feed babies, change diapers, wipe faces, and snuggle children whose hearts were tender and torn, not understanding where mommy and daddy had gone.
The wrenching of child from mother and father was like a horror movie, replayed in surround sound over and over. It was never something to get used to, to accept. And this couple's story was predictable, one during which, sadly, we could have filled in the blanks for them during their interview with the director:
"How many children do you have?"
"Five."
"One of your children is already here, yes?"
Heads were lowered as a murmured, "Si" came out of shame-touched lips.
Then followed a general health overview, striking in its similarity to any American doctor's office, shocking in its difference. The gentle questions of the director uncovered that the tiny two year-old experienced a cough and constant diarrhea.
"And what has she been eating?"
"She will only drink liquids."
"Which ones will she drink?" The director named a popular vitamin-enhanced liquid.
"No. No. Just coffee."
Pen scratching the paper was the only movement in the room. Outside, the sound of roosters and bus horns broke the stillness as the mother raised her head and answered the next question that came:
"And you are pregnant again?"
Silence and lowered eyes.
"Yes."
There was no condemnation. There was only compassion for the mother and care for the father, whose faces sculpted by desperation, despair, and hard labor belied their young ages. There was a bath and a bed and a meal for a starving girl. There was a wisp of hope touching the air, curling around the smell of the wood stove smoke that hung over the room.
This little girl would see health. This little girl, and so many others in that place, would know the laughter and playfulness and bright eyes and healthy hair that are the right of any child. This little girl would feel strength come back to her tiny, brittle arms. But some would not. Some would make the journey to this place far too late. Some would be too weak, too wounded. Some would fall asleep in their sweat-soaked beds and never wake up.
Today, as I watch mist hover above the field outside my window, a field which will provide abundance for animals who are more well-fed than so many humans breathing this planet's air today, I stop and remember this girl.
Today, as I open my phone to see perfectly-crafted ads that tell me all I need to own, need to have, need to add to my stockpile, I stop and remember these children.
Today, as I constantly hold in my hand a device which cost me more than many of these families will see in a year of body-breaking work, I stop.
And I remember.
Being a person who values the sanctity of life means that I value that life in whatever stage it is. There is much talk these days about protecting life in the womb. As a person who carried and nurtured three humans, I know the precious, precarious weight that unborn life holds. But once I birthed those children, they entered a secure home with plenty of food and toys and love and healthcare and education. They never wanted for anything they needed.
Most of us Americans don’t truly see the rest of the world. Sure, we take the excursion off the cruise ship, or we walk on a well-worn European road, but we don’t experience the deep need that exists right off that tourist-beaten path.
The vast majority of parents who brought their tiny children to that malnutrition center in the hills of Guatemala would rather have kept those children at home. It shattered their hearts to let those babies leave. Often, one of these parents would give up a day’s wages to pay the bus fare just to come hold their child for a few hours, to check and see if he was growing healthier, stronger.
The vast majority of mothers who brought their children to that home had been told by their church that birth control was a sin; among the women who wanted to use pregnancy prevention, many of their husbands still thought it was wrong. Even if those mothers knew that their bodies did not have enough nutrition to grow and nourish a baby, they were given no choice.
As we move forward past this divisive and rancorous election season, maybe we could each seek wisdom on what it truly means to be pro-life. Maybe we could ask ourselves what we would do when faced with an impossible choice. Maybe we could remember that each of us has made decisions we regret, has taken actions we look back on and wish we could wash away. Maybe we could give ourselves and someone else a taste of grace in place of judgment. Maybe we could lay down our “I would nevers” and pick up a way to help: We can volunteer. We can give. We can love.
Most of us will never have to make a life-protecting choice like these parents faced. But we can start with honesty: Choices like these happen in the US and the world over, every day, and we cannot make the choice for another, but we can work to make sure each life, born or unborn, is valued and then cared for. So that this choice never has to happen again.
