A sensation of hope came to me, that I often felt at such times, stepping outside and breathing in the air of early morning. Today it was a cold sharp air. There is a pleasure too in turning the ignition and hearing the motor come to life, and thinking of how, in a car, you could drive for thousands of miles along highways—to California, and Alaska . . .
The summer I’d spent with relatives in Mad River, working on their dairy farm, I had first wanted to drive with my high school friend to Alaska and work on the salmon fishing boats there. But our plans hadn’t worked out.
In that, the hand of God had guided me. I had not known at the time.
Driving to the Broome County Women’s Center along the familiar route. Two point six miles. And this too, for the last time. My heart clutched to see at an intersection ahead, a pickup truck braking to a stop at a stop sign.
As I was arriving earlier than usual at the Women’s Center, there were more places to park closer to the Center.
Since the vandalism committed against the Center this past summer, no parking was allowed on the street near the Center. The Center’s windows had been shuttered. There had been red spray paint on the walls, that had been power-washed away, or painted-over. Baby killers. Burn in Hell. I had not been involved in these acts committed by certain members of the Army of God whose names were to be kept from Reverend Dennis, for the Reverend’s good.
At this hour, 7:20 A.M. there were few protesters. But there was Stockard standing on the sidewalk at the front, in conversation with five or six protesters, who had come to the site in a minivan, from Springfield. I did not know their names but knew their faces and knew them to be Catholics. In the way that Stockard spoke with them, and their deference to him, I felt again that Stockard had been a priest, and was not now a priest, and I wondered at this, but it was too late for me to inquire.
I felt such anguish!—I had wanted to be a minister of the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus, and speak of the word of Jesus to all who would listen. But the church would not have me, and God too had rejected me as one who would spread His word.
The law had been passed in Ohio some years ago, that protesters had to keep no less than seven feet from the abortion providers and staff, and were forbidden to congregate on the front walk or to block passage to the front door of the Center; but often, this law was overlooked.
The Center would not unlock its doors until 8:00 A.M. and no mothers would arrive before then; when they did arrive some would hesitate to leave their vehicles until a volunteer escort approached, to help them past the protesters now crying at them—No! No! Don’t do it!
And the familiar chant that echoed so often in my brain like an angry pulse beating—
Free choice is a lie,
Nobody’s baby chooses to die.
At this hour there were no mothers arriving. But Voorhees would be arriving shortly. This, I knew with certainty.
God guide my hand. God do not allow me to fail.
It was decreed. It would not be altered. Those babies scheduled to be murdered this morning, would not be murdered if I could but act as decreed. And those babies whom the abortionist was to murder in days to come, might yet be spared.
Waiting in my vehicle with the motor turned off. I had been sweating inside my clothes but now, I was becoming calm. At last, at about 7:25 A.M., the dark blue Dodge minivan arrived and pulled into the Center driveway. At first I could not see which of the men in the front of the van was Voorhees for there were two men, then I saw that Voorhees was the passenger, beside him sat his “escort” who was his bodyguard, one of the Center volunteers whom we saw often and who was particularly aggressive and defiant to us.
In an instant, I was out of my vehicle.
In the driveway behind the minivan, moving swiftly. Already Voorhees had stepped out of the vehicle. I had no difficulty identifying the man for I knew his face well. And I had no difficulty seeing my target for my vision had strangely narrowed, it was wonderful how God had narrowed my vision like a tunnel, or a telescope, so that I saw only the target, and no other distractions.
Already my shotgun was lifted to my shoulder, I was aiming and firing even as the abortionist tried to dissuade me with hoarse shouted words—“Stand back! Put down that gun!”
In the foolishness of utter surprise the doomed man raised his arm, his hand with extended fingers—as if to appeal to me, or to shield his face from the blast.
And afterward over the fallen and bleeding man I crouched and my lips moved numbly.
“God have mercy! God forgive you.”
SOON THEN, it was over. On my knees I awaited the police.
If I shut my eyes I can shut out voices as well. Crude and ignorant voices of those that know not what they do.
Since that time it is God I am addressing and not humankind.
Not those who love me, no more than those who hate me.
If God does not answer me, it does not mean that God does not hear me and bless me as His soldier.
Only say the word and my soul shall be healed.
THE LIFE AND DEATH OF
GUS VOORHEES:
AN ARCHIVE
ABORTIONIST’S DAUGHTER
You must be grateful, he didn’t kill you.”
MEMORY, UNDATED
Why can’t we live with Daddy?”