Tonight my prayers felt heavier than usual — not for myself, not for things I need or long for, but for those who haven't yet had a voice. The unborn. The hidden. The fragile lives forming in silence while the world spins on, mostly unaware.
I sat with my Bible open on my lap, candles lit, just listening. The ache in my heart grew still and sharp — that kind of quiet pain that feels almost holy. I knew I needed to bring this burden to God. Not in anger, not in despair, but in prayer.
“For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb.” (Psalm 139:13)
That verse always pulls something deep from me. The way David writes it — knit me together — reminds me that every child, no matter how small, is not an accident. Not a clump of cells. Not a mistake. A soul. A story. A being fully known by God before ever being known by the world.
So I started praying.
I prayed for the babies — those quietly growing, week by week, their hearts beating faster than anyone hears, their fingers forming, their spirits already alive to the One who made them. I prayed that they would be protected. That somehow, someway, their lives would be preserved. I asked God to send angels to guard them, to soften hearts, to change decisions before it’s too late.
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.” (Jeremiah 1:5)
That verse keeps coming back to me. Every time I think about the unborn, I remember: God knows them. Not in theory. In spirit. In fullness. That truth is too powerful to ignore. They may be unseen by most of the world, but they are known deeply by their Creator.
Next, I prayed for the mothers — especially the ones who are scared. The ones who feel alone or unprepared. The women being pressured or shamed or lied to. I can’t imagine the weight of that moment, standing between fear and life. But I know God sees them. And I believe He aches with them.
“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” (Psalm 46:1)
I prayed that these women would feel His presence in the stillness. That they would hear His voice whispering, “You can do this. I will be with you.” That people would come around them — real people, with compassion and courage — to support them in love, not just opinions.
I also prayed for women who have already had abortions. This is always the hardest part for me to write or talk about, because it’s so delicate. I don’t want to speak over their pain or minimize their stories. I just know that God’s mercy runs deeper than our deepest regrets. That His grace is for every woman — including the ones who feel like they can never be forgiven.
“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us… and purify us from all unrighteousness.” (1 John 1:9)
Forgiveness isn’t a theory to me. It’s the whole reason I’m still standing. I prayed that women who carry guilt would meet Jesus as He truly is — gentle, strong, full of compassion. I prayed that they would feel His arms around them, not His finger pointing at them. I asked God to pour healing into their wounds, and to help the Church reflect His heart better — with grace, not shame.
Then I prayed for the people in power — leaders, lawmakers, counselors, doctors. That they would see the unborn as God sees them. That their decisions would be shaped by truth, not pressure. That they would remember the weight of every life and feel conviction where needed.
And lastly, I prayed for myself.
That I would not let my heart grow numb in a world that’s constantly desensitizing us to death and dehumanization. That I would never turn away just because it's easier. That I would love both the unborn and the born — the child and the mother. That my words would be filled with truth, but seasoned with grace.
“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves… defend the rights of the poor and needy.” (Proverbs 31:8–9)
I may not be able to do everything. But I can pray. I can give. I can support women who choose life. I can listen. I can love. And when the time is right, I can speak.
Sometimes I wonder what I’ll do if this belief costs me friendships. Or silence in a room where everyone assumes I think the way they do. But then I remember — Jesus didn’t call us to comfort. He called us to truth. And love. Always love.
There’s so much I don’t understand about this world. About why so many babies don’t get a chance. About why so many women feel they have no other option. But I trust the One who sees the full picture. I trust the One who holds every life — seen and unseen — in His hands.
So I’ll keep praying. Even when no one sees. Even when it hurts. Even when the answers don’t come in the way I hope.
Because I believe it matters.
And I believe they matter — every single one.
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