“I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Marvelous are Your works,
And that my soul knows very well.” Psalm 139:14
I am unsure of why I can only write deep things at the moment, but I’ve tried writing other things, and my heart kept coming back to my story; my pro-life story over the weekend since Friday night, and that’s why I somewhat stumbled off the face of the earth since Thursday, and so here we are, but to be honest, I have debated writing this in the past for two reasons:
- It’s very personal and it’s apart of my story as a young woman.
- The internet can be unforgiving, especially in the political climate we live in.
Those are two of the reasons that held me back in the past three years of blogging, for I’ve written it many times before, and I’ve deleted it each time, because the thing is, is that I am somewhat afraid of the power behind my story.
However, this is just a small part of my story, for I have also suffered through my father’s death and being domestically abuse in 2018, which lead to almost a year long court trial, and just the thought of writing all of this in one post would probably be a little too much, so we’ll break it down. (I wrote my domestic abuse story twice, and deleted them both due to me feeling shame)
However, when people look at me, they normally say, “She cannot possibly have a struggle” or “She’s to happy to have a past,” and this kind of thinking is dangerous, because though one may look happy on the outside, you do not know of the battle within, which is why we should be kind and caring to all the people we encounter, for people fight battles unaware. In the end, it costs nothing to be a kind person, but it will cost you everything if you are mean, for people remember you based on how you treated them, not by how you look.
However, I have a pro-life story; one that I have hidden due to being judged in the past for my story, and yet, as a young woman, I am trying not to care about perception anymore, for perfection isn’t who I am, because no matter how difficult my entire story is, it is apart of who I am as a young woman, and I think it’s time that I own my story instead of it owning me. (Forgive me if this is really long, but there is no way of condensing my story.)
My biological mother hated little girls. The idea of having a daughter disgusted her, and if you were to ask her what she would do with a daughter, she would say that she would kill a little girl. For some reason, little girls were a disgrace in her eyes, and when she was pregnant with me, the last thing she thought about was me being a baby girl.
“The baby is a boy, for I know it’s a boy” she said many times. My name was supposed to be Joshua James, and she had this ideal fantasy about me being a little boy, and if you dare mentioned the idea of me being a girl, she would blow up at you and say, “Don’t say that around me! I hate girls!”
Her hatred went so far that she would say she would kill me if she found out I was a little girl, and she even spoke about aborting little girls as well, which little did she know that she was carrying a girl within her womb, but she was oblivious to that fact for nine months.
I believe the Lord protected me, for at each ultrasound, my legs were closed like a little lady; therefore, my biological mother never knew my gender until I was born, and I believe that was because of the fact that she would have aborted me if she found out I was a girl. If she would have found out that I was a little girl, she would have made an appointment at the abortion clinic the same day, for every single day, she said she would kill a little girl if she had one.
For nine months, my gender was a secret, and as each month passed, my biological mother kept counting the days until Joshua James was born, but on the day I was born, it was not Joshua James, it was Christina Hope.
When it was found out that I was a girl, everyone was scrambling for a girl name. “What do we name her,” people yelled frantically, yet my biological mother did not care. She wanted no part in naming me, and she even refused to hold me after I was born. When the doctor said, “It’s a girl,” my biological mother shut down, and said, “I don’t want to hold it,” and she instantly rejected me out of the womb.
She began to cry tears of sorrow due to me not being her beloved Joshua James, and as people were scrambling for a name, she resented me and refused to look at me; she was not happy.
How did I get my name?
It was random.
“Name her Christina Hope” someone said as people scrambled for a name, and that is how my name became what it is. It kind of reminds me of how John was named, and everyone was wondering what to name him, and then his father said, “Name him John,” and the same happened to me. “Name her Christina.”
As I left the hospital, my biological mother grew a hatred towards me with each passing minute, which then caused her to abuse me. Not long after I was born, my biological mother poured bleach in my eyes, which almost caused me to go blind, but due to the protective hand of God, I did not go blind. However, as I laid in my crib with bleach burning my eyes, my biological mother was in the other room putting on her makeup to “look good” for the doctors when she brought me in.
She told the doctors it was an “accident,” yet we all knew what she did; she poured it in my eyes; however, I was discharged the next day with sunglasses and maintained my vision. It is a miracle to this day that I am not blind, for the amount of bleach she poured within my eyes was so great, that I should have gone completely blind. (To this day, I have scars behind my eyes from the bleach burns.)
As the weeks went on, my biological mother began to refuse to change my diaper, which lead to many rashes, sores, and whatnot to form. If I smelled bad, she would spray perfume on my open wounds and sores, which caused me to scream in pain due to the burning pain. In response to my screams and crying, she would place sleeping drugs in my bottle to “shut me up,’ and she did this often.
When I was feed, which was not often, sleeping drugs were laced in my old, curdled milk, and I was then entranced into long periods of sleep. With these long periods of sleep, she resorted to locking me in an upstairs bedroom with boarded up windows so no one would know that a baby girl was abandoned under the use of sleeping medicine, and as I slept, she would carry on her life as if she never had a little girl.
My biological mother also “dabbled’ in prostitution; therefore, as I laid upstairs drinking old, expired milk, she was out somewhere doing whatever she did when she was gone while I was unattended with the door unlocked. Anyone could have walked into the house, saw an abandoned baby, and kidnapped me, but she did not care. In fact, I think she would have been quite fond of the idea of me being taken, for it meant she would not have to deal with a “little girl.”
At month three of my life, I was near death. My biological mother refused any family to come visit me, she refused anyone into the house, but my biological grandparents, who I call my parents, had a gut feeling that something was wrong, and one day as they were out, they decided to come to my house and see if I was okay.
They were greeted with a door wide open and my biological mother gone. It was a frigged December day in North Carolina, and the cold air made it’s way into the home; therefore, the home was quite cold, and with a three month old baby upstairs, one could only imagine the state I was in.
My biological grandparents made their way upstairs and were greeted by my locked door, and it would not open, which then resulted in it having to be barged down to rescue me, and there was no scream from me. The windows were boarded with wood so the neighbors could not look in, the lights were killed in the room, and it was pitch black.
“Where is Christina? I cannot find her,” my mother said as she tried to feel around the room for me while my dad tried to find some source of light, and then my mother stumbled upon my crib, and found a limp baby girl. My mother grabbed me and brought me out into the light of the living room and I was blue in the face with no sign of life.
My diaper was so full, that it was ripping off my waist due to how heavy it was, and my milk was so curdled, that my father began to become nauseous at the smell. That same milk bottle was what I was drinking for weeks on end. My mother began to pray out to God to bring me back as I was being rushed to help. A baby girl at only three months old was hanging onto life, and my parents prayed and prayed.
As they were driving, I began to cry. Out of nowhere, a sign of life was found, and my mother began to cry. “Thank you Lord” she said as I began to cry louder and louder; I was alive, and God gave me another chance.
At this point, my biological grandparents filed for adoption, and they became my parents right after this incident; therefore, I was given a very loving home. I w as blessed beyond belief, I was their little princess, and I was a cute little girl who wore floral dresses everyday to pre-school and Kindergarten.
I was the apple of my parents’ eye, and even though they were my adopted parents, I viewed them as my mom and dad and nothing less than that. Therefore, though I described to you a very horrific story of my beginnings, it is not my definition. Sure, it was a horrible start to my life, but I was given the best home any child could have asked for.
I was raised in a Christian home; however, I personally accepted Christ right before I turned 13. Throughout my life, my parents allowed me to be open with them about all things, my parents were there when I was bullied for my story, and my parents were the parents that always had to take a photo of their child when they did something.
At every choir concert, at every ballet recital, and at every little awards show at school, my parents had their Kodak camera and would develop the film the next day at CVS; those were my parents, and they always told me that the best thing they every did was adopt me.
“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.” Jeremiah 29:11
However, I like to say that the best thing God could have done, other than give me grace, was giving them to me as my parents, and I could never thank my mom and dad enough for all of the sacrifice and love they have given me, and now that I am a young twenty-something year old woman, I am still thankful. Though my father has passed away and is no longer here with us, I am still thankful, and I will cherish the memories of my childhood.
With that being said, I am pro-life, and why would I not be after my story?
I just gave you the entire details of part my story, and when people hear my story, they think, “Wow, you went through that?” Yes, I did, and it is not my definition, but it is a chapter of my life that I did go through, but as we see, I have gone through many other chapters. Though I have been defined by my story by other people in the past, and though I have encountered mean people who judged me for my story in the past, I am not going to allow that to take away the joy that is found in Christ, because I am alive, and it is because of Christ that I am alive both psychically and spiritually.
I am pro-life because I know what it is like to not be wanted when you are born, I am pro-life because I know what it is like to be blessed with the chance at life through adoption, and most importantly, I am pro-life because all life is inspired by God, and has a God-given right to a chance at life.
I am now a joyful young woman who yearns to become a wife and a mother now, and there is one thing I will be that my biological mother will never be, and that is an amazing mother. Due to my story, I am going to be the most amazing mother, I am going to be a mother who loves her children regardless of whether they are a boy or a girl, and if I do have a little girl, I will make her my little princess, and if I have a little boy, then he’ll be a mama’s boy.
My story has made be a tender woman who understands that all have stories, and my story has made me an advocate for the voices that are not heard, for even the softest voices deserve the right tot be heard by those who want to silence them out, and that is why I will forever be pro-life.
I plan to be a tender wife, a protective mother, a voice for the unborn, and I will forever advocate for adoption over abortion. There is another way, there is another option, and there are many organizations who will hep you other than Planned Parenthood, but please, whatever you do, do nto end that child’s life. Abortion is a topic that hits home with me, for if I would have moved my leg just an inch in the womb, I would have been one step closer to begin in an abortion clinch fearing for my life.
Therefore, this is my pro-life story, this is my story of how God blessed me with another chance at life, and with this second chance I have be given, it is only right for me to be passionate for those who are fighting for that second chance; therefore, this is why I am so passionate about pro-life. In the past, people would ask me, “Why are you so passionate about being pro-life,” and if only they knew my story, then the true question they would me asking would be, “Why would she not be pro-life?”
“O God, You are my God;
Early will I seek You;
My soul thirsts for You;
My flesh longs for You
In a dry and thirsty land
Where there is no water.
2 So I have looked for You in the sanctuary,
To see Your power and Your glory.
3 Because Your lovingkindness is better than life,
My lips shall praise You.”
And so I thank the Lord that I am alive and able to be a voice for the unborn, and due to being given more than a second chance, I will forever glorify the Lord, I will forever worship His name, for at the end of the day, I owe it to the Lord for protecting me, and with all He has done for me, I shall relentless pursue Him, and I choose to find joy in the one who made a way when there was no way, and through glorious wounds, I have been redeemed.
This is my pro-life story, and it is not my definition, but it is just the beginning.