Here’s one way you can fight abortion. You can go back to the womb, back to the seldom-remembered time before you were born, or right after you were born but months before the vagina shuttle dropped you off at the delivery ward, and you can watch Jesus punch your mom in the face because she’d like to take Franklin Roosevelt’s RU486 pills. Then you can tell a harrowing first-hand account of Holocaust zygote survival to your Christian pals and high-five everybody because you just won the all-time yuck episode of Fear Factor.

Delivered from Abortion: Healing a Forgotten Memory
July 31, 2012 By Gordon Dalbey

Late in the fall of 1943, as Nazi submarines terrorized Allied shipping, a young Navy officer and his wife faced a terrible dilemma when he deployed to an aircraft carrier in the North Atlantic.

What to do. Should we abort our future hallucinating baby? Or should we have the Nazis do it? They’re not about to feed and clothe an eight pound homeless person. Oops: SPOILER ALERT. Oh well, Gordon’s mom is pregnant, back to the drama unfolding:

The doctor, however, had a solution to her problem. Handing her a small, dark red vial and scheduling her for an appointment the following week, he explained that he could “fix everything” quickly and easily after she took the pills.

Days later, before the appointment, the young woman shook the pills out of the vial into her hand and closed her fist. Shaking from both cold and anxiety, she poured a glass of water with her other hand. Uneasily, she hesitated and looked out a frost-covered kitchen window. “What if this is the son my husband wants?” she thought. Turning to her fist, she paused, then opened it and lifted the glass of water.

Remarkable lyrical details from the scene supplied by Gordon, especially considering the vantage point. Maybe his womb was brilliantly lit and richly appointed with sight-lines, glass and mirrors. Whether it’s hosting an impromptu Summer fest for the neighbors or a cozy detente in the whisper campaigns among the executive class, the guests frequently ooh and aah at the views from Gordon’s crystal palace. How you ladies manage to lug one of these eyesores around is a mystery. I’d be crankier.

“At the last minute, she just threw the pills away into the trash can.”

This jarring revelation stirred a host of unsettling, lifelong mysteries.

I remembered my recurrent nightmare of swimming frantically underwater and, strangely, breathing while submerged—an amniotic, prenatal “memory”? Once, I told a psychiatrist how I felt “trapped” and panicky in close relationships with women. Fears of death had dogged me, and a pervasive, empty sense of not belonging anywhere.

It’s starting to make sense. The water. The nightmares. The bouncing and the noise whenever the tenement janitor dropped by to say “Toodle-oo Carol. Don’t you look nice today?” The pieces fit.

Lying on the floor, I curled up in a fetal position and imagined the kitchen scene 35 years earlier as my sister had related it: myself tightly bound inside my mother’s womb, her holding the pills and glass of water, pausing over her decision.

As I “saw” my mother lift the pills, I began to shake in terror. “Jesus, help!” I cried out suddenly, desperately. “Save me, Jesus!” As I lay trapped and trembling, in my mind’s eye I saw a figure come into the kitchen and stand by my mother. With a single gesture, he reached and swept the pills out of her hand and into the trash can.

Amazed, I watched as he then turned to me. “You don’t owe your life to your mother,” he declared. “It was I who stayed her hand. You belong to me.”

I tried to say something. But with the silent wave of his hand, strong and thin, he simply replied “No.” Our eyes met, I couldn’t tear myself away. That’s how the most amazing night of my life began BOOOWN-CHIGGA-DOWN-BWAAAOOOOOWWW no I’m kidding. Too easy.

A cool sensation of release swept over me. Sighing deeply, I lay quiet.

Later, I remembered Jesus’ promise to his followers, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32NIV).

Indeed, this watershed experience freed me to face many unhealthy dynamics in my life—most notably, feeling overly responsible for my mother’s happiness and guilty for wanting a life of my own.

That last bit could use highlighting if ever there’s a non-fiction version of this drama. That part’s actually compelling. What? Right, The King stays in the picture, got it.

Today, 68 years later, I remain humbled by this unwieldy yet compelling mystery—and determined to entertain it. I’m neither obligated to believe nor ashamed to be alive.

I’m privileged to testify. The more I do, the more thankful I am to God, and the more determined I am to see others experience that saving power themselves.

So that they, too, may garner the same sort of forensic attention. By the way of visions-and-visits-with-Jesus. Imagine how difficult to believe some of this would be if it weren’t true.