Mother's Day
A pastor’s reflection on the death of
Laura Hope Smith
(and the baby in her womb)
By Pastor Erik Eskelund
May 11, 2008
Sunday morning, and the clock on the
wall tells me it's almost time to get
started with the service. I am pleased.
Any pastor would be pleased to see the
room full like this. I can hear the happy
voices and the laughter, and some of the
six-year olds are wrestling over who gets
to sit in the front row. Someone at the
door is handing out fresh roses and
hugs, and I can tell already that
Mothers' Day this year is going to be a
good one.
As I scan the room, looking for familiar
faces, I am struck with a sense of
privilege. What an honor it is to serve
these beautiful and complex people, to
walk with them through their trials and
to rejoice with them in their victories.
And what's more, I can feel the smile of
God as His people gather in His name.
On a day like today, I can't imagine
myself doing anything else.
It was just such a day back in
September when Laura last visited our
church. I was so pleased to see her
again after what seemed to be a year or
more. Laura used to attend the youth
Bible study in my living room when she
was in high school, and every now and
then she would show up at church and
fill me in on her newest adventures.
On that late summer day, the room was
packed as well. I was scurrying around
after the service, trying to touch base
with old friends and new visitors before
they took off out the door. And suddenly
there she was, bubbly and laughing and
all grown up. She caught me on the
stairs up to the fellowship room, and we
stood there talking for a good 20
minutes. She told me that she was
engaged to be married, and that her
beau was off in Iraq. I asked about her
parents, and how her summer had been,
and when we might see her back at
church again. It was one of those
conversations we pastors have on
Sunday mornings - never quite enough
time to get really deep, but just enough
to hopefully show that we really do care.
Four days later, Laura was dead. Just
like that. I remember the awful feeling in
the pit of my stomach when I heard the
news. I don't even remember who called
me first, or how they told me. All I
remember is that the little girl I just
spoke with on Sunday was gone. Gone.
Lost to an abortion gone wrong. An
abortion? Laura? I still can't believe it.
I consider myself to be a listener when it
comes to God. I have spent my whole life
following that still, small voice. I trust
Him to guide me, to give me inspiration
when I prepare, wisdom when I counsel,
and understanding when things get
tricky. On Sunday mornings especially I
am looking for that Divine guidance. Why
didn't I hear anything this time? Why
didn't God give me a hint, or stir me to
say something that might have
prevented what happened?
I don't know. Maybe I was too busy
getting excited about the fact that
church was full. Maybe I was too busy
trying to greet everyone so they would
come back again next week. But then I
did talk to her longer than I talked to
anyone that day. Why didn't I hear? And
why didn't Laura say anything?
The longer I have thought about this, the
more I realize that God doesn't wait
until the crisis to warn us. Typically He
warns us well in advance. His Word is full
of exhortation, and it is as relevant
today as it was thousands of years ago
when it was first written. I couldn't
possibly have specific pre-knowledge
about all the tragedies about to occur,
and even if I did, there would be precious
little I could do to stop them all. But
God, who does know all these things,
adopts a strategy we teachers would do
well to follow.
God simply speaks the truth. His
intention is clear: He wants to save us
from our sins. He is not on some sort of
popularity campaign. He is not trying to
impress us with His wisdom and
knowledge. If He wanted to do that, He
could walk circles around our most
brilliant intellectual arguments and show
us scientific wonders that would make
the most hardened atheists bow their
stubborn knees. He is not trying to grow
the largest movement or establish the
next great ministry. Instead, He speaks
plainly and without intimidation. He has
to know that a post-modern world will
find His message constricting and
uncomfortable, and many will reject it.
Amazingly, God doesn't change. He tells
us as it is, explains how sin will rob us
and ultimately kill us, and then He offers
us a better way. He speaks the truth,
yet no one can doubt His love.
In the days and weeks following Laura's
death, I wondered how many times I may
have postponed speaking the truth in an
attempt to first be loving. Call it tact,
call it being 'winsome' or shrewd, but is it
perhaps a misunderstanding of the
severity of consequences and the power
of prevention? It may be that I have not
equated warning with love. Discipline with
love. Boundaries with love. The answer,
"No!" with love.
Since Laura's death, I have become
much more bold. I have openly taught
about sexuality in church. I have made
more of an effort to impart LIFE as a
core value in our congregation. I have
been bold to thank pregnant, single
young girls for opting to carry their
babies. In doing so, I have not
compromising on issues of morality,
while at the same time offering a safe
place for the broken to find forgiveness. I
have begun to look out for those who I
think may be struggling, and I speak
intimately with or without their
invitation, because I don't know if I'll have
another opportunity tomorrow.
Today would have been Laura's first
Mothers' Day. I grieve that as I scan the
familiar faces in the room. I can hear a
baby whimpering over there in the third
row, and just behind the post at the
back of the room I can see a toddler
crumpling up a bunch of our bright pink
bulletins. Two of our young adults are
unwed and expecting, and I have some
concerns about one of our college kids
whose recent disregard for modesty is
revealing a deeper crisis of faith. And
that young man over there just took his
parents' car for a joyride and stayed
out all night doing Lord knows what. Ah,
I love these kids. I love all these people,
and I love them a lot. I guess it's time to
put it all on the line and simply tell them
the truth. What's that? 10:30 AM?
Okay, Lord, I'm hearing You. Give me
strength... here I go!
Used with permission from Eileen Smith
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