Notes from The Murder Mill: No. 3
Friday, June 9th. The number of people standing for life outside the Greenville Women's Clinic has doubled since last month. There were two or three woke activists there before us, and they fired up a scratchy speaker as soon as we arrived. Crowded close together, we sang the usual psalms and hymns. But it was unusual, because for the first time, we actually drowned out the noise. At one point, all I could hear was the beat, and it happened to lend itself very well to our song.
Shortly, the opposers realized that their current tactic had been overcome, so they pulled out some gear that was so rude it was ridiculous: long, plastic horns, which were very loud and sounded like they were dying. They walked around our group with these noisy devices for the half hour we were out there. Sometimes, one would stop and aim the noise directly at the back of a singer's head for a moment or two. It didn't matter if they were an adult or a child.
One of the activists, a man I'll call Mr. Twit, was particularly obnoxious. (The other one had just recently gotten out of jail, so thankfully she kept her distance). When Mr. Twit, a former schoolteacher, tired of blowing a horn inches away from a young girl's ears, he turned on a fake police siren. Many members of our group looked around, since we were half-expecting law enforcement to show up. Earlier, one of our men had stepped away and tried to call the police, but Mr. Twit followed him and made it totally impossible to talk on the phone. The man on the phone decided to call 911, but all the operator possibly could have heard was siren. No emergency personnel showed up that day.
Mr. Twit made the mistake of entering our midst. He found an opening in the cluster which happened to be near me, so I witnessed his transition from a manner of confident fling to tumbling fear. No one touched him. However, our broad-shouldered men, strong from earning a living for their families, easily closed the gap. Mr. Twit became angrily fearful, and spun around, thrusting his megaphone into people's faces. Perhaps he should not have invaded our circle if he didn't want to be near us.
At the usual time, we left the site. This was the first time I heard Mr. Twit's voice, and he made use of "fudge" but not really "fudge," even as he acknowledged the presence of children.
"Walk on! Yes, walk on! Take your children and go. Just go the f*** away!"
The expletive was inserted several more times as we walked. We sang the Doxology anyway, of course.
Three men remained behind for a minute or two. Mr. Twit shouted in their faces with the megaphone. I'm not sure if he was trying to scare them away or make them punch him so he could sue. But the mocking was watery at best: "You, with your facial hair!" (He had some close fuzz himself). Also, he called a man "Shorty," even though he's not vertically challenged at all.
We prayed back in the parking lot instead of at the entrance to the murder mill, since it would have been impossible to hear.
I like to joke and make fun of the proverbial fools out there, but on the other hand, let these stories encourage you to take the fight seriously. They certainly do. They put a ton of energy into the promotion of death, while many Christians ignore widespread child slaughter. A couple bucks in the offering plate on Pro-Life Sunday at church is not enough. The leftists go out and buy sirens, horns, flags, and signs. They spend hours outside picketing in the hot sun and chilly rain while Christians go about their lives as if babies aren't being strangled, poisoned and dismembered under the protection of the law. More Christians need to fight, and in my little corner of the country, hopefully our standing and singing will have impact.
You know what? We need a trumpet.
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