There were some in the yard outside of the Catholic parish where my family and I went to Confession yesterday. Rows and rows of them; over five hundred in all.
Tiny white crosses, lined up on the ground. Each representing some of the nearly 1.4 million human beings killed in America each year by what we like to call "choice."
Each of those crosses represents a baby unloved, unwanted, despised enough to be disposed of by a woman who wanted to forget. Most women don't forget, though. And many, no matter what they say in public or write on blogs or forums, were deeply traumatized by the abortion--by the absolute knowledge and moral certainty that what they carried inside of them was their own precious, unique, irreplaceable child, whom they sentenced to death at the hands of a hired executioner.
So many women who do, finally, admit their grief and pain and guilt and horror over having made such a terrible "choice" will also say that while they were in denial over this grief and pain, anything having to do with abortion, or even anything that reminded them of their abortion, could trigger anything from rage to nausea to panic attacks to a whole host of other unexplained emotional responses. Certainly people who put up those tiny white crosses can attest to the number of times the crosses get pulled out of the ground, or run over by cars, or otherwise vandalized--yet the crosses do no harm to anyone; they merely stand in silent witness to the lives lost forever, the little lives that sometimes no one but their mothers and their killers even knew existed.
Still, people who want women to continue to have the right to choose to pay someone to kill their children have a tendency to call displays like this one "anti-choice," betraying in this ugly phrase the simple fact that the only choice they believe in is the one that results in one more dead baby, and one more tiny white cross upon a green and quiet lawn.