My name is Obbie. You don’t know me but I’m a youth pastor in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I work with kids and I love my job. Getting to watch children grow up into adulthood is one of the most wonderful gifts I’ve ever been given.
It’s my job to make sure they get there the right way — the way of the cross. The way that Jesus paved for them with His own blood. He loves each of them. Just like me. But unlike me, He knew each of them before they were ever born. And, He entrusted me with the care of their souls. So I guess you could call me a shepherd of sorts. A shepherd with little sheep.
The irony is that my wife and I don’t have our own little sheep. We don’t have a child to take home with us. I’m a youth pastor without children. That’s why I’m writing you this letter today.
I want to thank you. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. But soon, someday, you’re going to give Kelly and I the most important earthly possession we will ever have: your child.
You are a stranger to me. We’ve never met. But I’ve seen you in my dreams; I’ve imagined the day we meet. When you hand me your child — my child.
While you may be struggling with guilt, and while you may be told by others that you’re a bad mom, I wanted instead to say thank you.
Thank you for not killing my baby. Thank you for deciding that my boy or girl was more than a “fetus.” Thank you for loving my child more than your “reproductive rights.” Thank you for valuing human life. Thank you for your strength. The strength to carry my child for nine months. To let me take him or her from your arms. To save a child you won’t raise.
You didn’t have to. In fact, there are many people in this country who would call you a “hero” for killing my baby. But for whatever reason… you didn’t. So thank you.
This last month marked the 43rd anniversary of Roe v. Wade. That’s a piece of legislation that gives you the “freedom” to kill my child. The one you’re possibly carrying in your womb as you read this letter.
Since that decision, 57 million children have been murdered. The current U.S. population is roughly 300 million.
Because of your courage, my baby won’t be one of those casualties. Because of you, my child will have the “freedom” to live and to be loved by Kelly and I. Because of you, my wife will become a mother to a beautiful child. Because of you. A stranger. So thank you.
You might be wondering why we want a child that doesn’t carry our own genes, or why we don’t simply live a life of “freedom” and “opportunity.” It’s the same reason we didn’t specify a gender or a race.
Kelly and I already love your child. Our child. Not because of what they are or who they are, but whose they are. We’ve prayed for him or her every day since this whole process began.
Why? Because God didn’t abort us. He didn’t consider His “rights” and choose to abandon us. Instead He adopted two orphans into His family.
He loved us unconditionally before Kelly and I were even born. He knew us by name. It’s the same kind of love that can love and pray for a child we’ve never met.
We love our baby. Not because he or she looks like us. Not because of “genes.” We love our child because we love our child — because Jesus first loved us. All three of us. All four.
So thank you. Whatever you’ve done. Wherever you’ve been. Whoever you are. Thank you.
Thank you for not killing my child. Thank you for choosing life for my baby; we prayed that you would. We prayed to a God who saves. Who tasted death so that we could have life.
Ultimately, this child isn’t yours. It’s not ours. It’s His. The Author of Life. And He knows the name of our child. He knows yours too. Even while we were yet sinners. Thank you.
“I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you.” – John 14:18