least I thought it did. I began to feel hope—hope for my own life and the life of my unborn child.
We hadn't talked about what I would do once the baby was born. Putting it up for adoption seemed like the logical choice. But each time I considered giving the baby away, the purpose I was trying to find in my pain slipped from my grasp. If I gave her up—I was sure the baby was a girl—then why would I have gone through all of this in the first place?
If I kept her, I could teach her everything I was learning. I could give her the same love and stability my parents had given me plus the insight I'd gained through my own mistakes.
My mistakes . . .
There'd been so many. Guilt, that familiar intruder, hissed his accusations as each sin came to mind. And now, he reminded me, you bear one of those consequences in your womb.
But maybe, just maybe, I could turn this consequence around. It was this desire, along with the years of guilt I'd struggled with, that I finally shared with my mother two weeks before Annie was born. I remember the stunned look on her face and then her tears as she internalized my pain. After wiping away her tears, she held my face in her hands and looked me in the eyes, "You must always remember that guilt is not from God, Shannon. There is no condemnation for those in Jesus Christ. Don't ever let guilt make your choices for you. There's nothing God can't forgive. When you've sinned, the Holy Spirit will convict you, but His convictions are gentle. He doesn't accuse or condemn."
We cried together that afternoon. I told her that I wanted to keep my baby—that I'd love her and teach her and keep her from making the same mistakes I'd made. I think my mom wanted the same. She wanted this grandchild.
The next two weeks were better. Even good. My body still craved the drugs, but my mind and soul had found a new purpose. And drugs didn't fit with that purpose. My mother, daddy, and Ruby had made the first choice for me by forcing me to stay away from the drugs. The next choice was my own, which was the only choice that would ultimately make a real difference. I knew I was going to raise this baby and I would do it to the best of my ability. If that meant attending NA and working the twelve steps, then that's what I would do.
By August the doctor figured I was in the beginning of my last trimester and he warned me again of the risks to the baby because of my drug abuse. His litany included miscarriage, poor fetal growth, placental abruption, premature rupture of membranes, premature delivery, and stillbirth. All were just meaningless words to me. I wasn't worried. I knew God's plan and was willing to cooperate. I'd turn my life around and raise this baby, and He'd work all things together for good and ensure that she was healthy.
I began anticipating the baby's arrival. In the evenings I'd lie in bed with my hands over my mound of a belly and whisper my dreams to my daughter. I told her that I loved her, that I was sorry for putting her in danger. I told her about her grandma and grandpa, her uncle Jeff and Ruby. I even told her about Jesus and how much He loved us.
My first doubts about God's plan came the morning I awoke with a searing pain in my back. When I got out of bed, I felt fluid trickling down my leg followed by a gush that splattered the floor.
"Mother. Mother!" I didn't move. I bent over to ease the pain in my back and waited. She would know what to do.
She must have heard the fear in my voice because I could hear her quick steps from the kitchen to the bedroom. "Shannon, what's—"
She saw the puddle on the floor and the pain on my face and knew I was in trouble. She helped me back into bed and ran for the phone.
I heard her murmured conversation with the nurse from the doctor's office and then heard her dial another number. Within a few minutes she was back at my side.
"Darling, I've called for an ambulance. The nurse says we need to get you to the hospital immediately."
"Can't Dad
We hadn't talked about what I would do once the baby was born. Putting it up for adoption seemed like the logical choice. But each time I considered giving the baby away, the purpose I was trying to find in my pain slipped from my grasp. If I gave her up—I was sure the baby was a girl—then why would I have gone through all of this in the first place?
If I kept her, I could teach her everything I was learning. I could give her the same love and stability my parents had given me plus the insight I'd gained through my own mistakes.
My mistakes . . .
There'd been so many. Guilt, that familiar intruder, hissed his accusations as each sin came to mind. And now, he reminded me, you bear one of those consequences in your womb.
But maybe, just maybe, I could turn this consequence around. It was this desire, along with the years of guilt I'd struggled with, that I finally shared with my mother two weeks before Annie was born. I remember the stunned look on her face and then her tears as she internalized my pain. After wiping away her tears, she held my face in her hands and looked me in the eyes, "You must always remember that guilt is not from God, Shannon. There is no condemnation for those in Jesus Christ. Don't ever let guilt make your choices for you. There's nothing God can't forgive. When you've sinned, the Holy Spirit will convict you, but His convictions are gentle. He doesn't accuse or condemn."
We cried together that afternoon. I told her that I wanted to keep my baby—that I'd love her and teach her and keep her from making the same mistakes I'd made. I think my mom wanted the same. She wanted this grandchild.
The next two weeks were better. Even good. My body still craved the drugs, but my mind and soul had found a new purpose. And drugs didn't fit with that purpose. My mother, daddy, and Ruby had made the first choice for me by forcing me to stay away from the drugs. The next choice was my own, which was the only choice that would ultimately make a real difference. I knew I was going to raise this baby and I would do it to the best of my ability. If that meant attending NA and working the twelve steps, then that's what I would do.
By August the doctor figured I was in the beginning of my last trimester and he warned me again of the risks to the baby because of my drug abuse. His litany included miscarriage, poor fetal growth, placental abruption, premature rupture of membranes, premature delivery, and stillbirth. All were just meaningless words to me. I wasn't worried. I knew God's plan and was willing to cooperate. I'd turn my life around and raise this baby, and He'd work all things together for good and ensure that she was healthy.
I began anticipating the baby's arrival. In the evenings I'd lie in bed with my hands over my mound of a belly and whisper my dreams to my daughter. I told her that I loved her, that I was sorry for putting her in danger. I told her about her grandma and grandpa, her uncle Jeff and Ruby. I even told her about Jesus and how much He loved us.
My first doubts about God's plan came the morning I awoke with a searing pain in my back. When I got out of bed, I felt fluid trickling down my leg followed by a gush that splattered the floor.
"Mother. Mother!" I didn't move. I bent over to ease the pain in my back and waited. She would know what to do.
She must have heard the fear in my voice because I could hear her quick steps from the kitchen to the bedroom. "Shannon, what's—"
She saw the puddle on the floor and the pain on my face and knew I was in trouble. She helped me back into bed and ran for the phone.
I heard her murmured conversation with the nurse from the doctor's office and then heard her dial another number. Within a few minutes she was back at my side.
"Darling, I've called for an ambulance. The nurse says we need to get you to the hospital immediately."
"Can't Dad
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