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I see her walking across the street with her boyfriend, faded blue backpack slung over her shoulder, and my dear Lord Jesus, she is me five years ago. I am sure my Lord has put me here to save her. I know there�s a chance that she could just be out for a Saturday morning stroll, getting coffee and a newspaper, but I don�t think so. The hunted look on her face, the overly comfortable clothes she�s wearing, the way she�s clinging to his arm as if he�s keeping her from drowning. They all point to her being here on the Devil�s own mission. When they reach the curb, I can hear them talking.
�What number are we looking for?�
�1301. It should be on this block somewhere.�
The fact that she�s got the address wrong is just one more sign that the Lord meant her for us. Mary and Martha are moving in closer, signs held proudly above their heads.
�It�s a child, dear, not a choice.�
�God loves you and your baby, sweetheart.�
The girl keeps her head down tightly against her chest, practically pulling the boy along with her. She doesn�t want to see the pictures on the cards, the real evidence that what she�s about to do is murder her own child, just as I almost did. But the Lord Jesus guided me through, made me see that there was nothing in the world more important than Jessica from the moment she was born. I wish I�d brought her with me today, as I do most Saturdays, but she was still feeling poorly. She tried to hide it, though, up early and all dressed like that, asking me, �Are we going to save the babies today, Momma?� in that angelic voice. I brought plenty of photos of her, though, and I just know that if I can get that girl to look at them, to listen to me, that God will help her find the true path.
The boy maneuvers between us, pulling her closer, talking into her ear. �Don�t listen to them, Jennifer. Sing the Banana Splits theme song. La la la, la la la la, la la la��
Michael moves to the side to give me a clearer path. I slide in and place my hand gently on her arm, stopping her in her tracks. �You�ll always be a mother, honey.� I try to get her to look up as I wave the photos of Jessie in front of her. �You�ll just be the mother of a dead child.�
Her eyes, cold and hard, travel up and meet mine, locking me in her gaze. I look back and I smile, and I pray, and I pray, and I pray.
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