I sit at my keyboard two hours before President Trump nominates a candidate to replace Judge Kennedy on the Supreme Court. In a state that’s overwhelmingly conservative, but represented by one Republican senator and one Democrat senator we find the Democrat senator in an untenable position.

Shall he side with his colleagues that are in the minority, or shall he side with the majority opinion in Alabama. He is in a “pickle.” Darned if he does and darned if he don’t.

Elected in a fluke election, where the Republicans played their hand as amateurishly as it could be done, Senator Jones must decide, between, certain defeat, the next go round, or the wrath of his Senate cohorts.

The U.S. Constitution dictates the process, allowing the president to nominate his choice, with the Senate to “Advise and Consent.” I believe that, if Trump were able to resurrect “OLD ABE” as the nominee he would get “Borked.”

I fear we are about to witness a spectacle of titanic proportions: of lies and half-truths, character assassination, manufactured accusations from women (if it’s a man) and questioning ones right to freely practice their religion, if a woman. The whole circus will play out around the theme of “Women’s Rights.” Little will be said about “Unborn Rights.” There will be rioting in the streets. People will be hurt.

I have a selfish interest in, “how this thing turns out.” I have much concern and trepidation about a country that affords pets humane dignities and more rights than the unborn. I pray for the day when we can find common ground somewhere between “All abortions are lawful” and “No abortion is lawful.” There has to be a way to rectify the difference between conscience and convenience.

It is my great fortune to have an adopted son, who has two handsome, wonderful boys. Thank God, his biological mother was grounded enough in her beliefs to afford Ann and me the opportunity to love him and rear him. She made a “Choice for Life.”

In a letter she left for our son she assured him that the choice she made was out of love and compassion for the life growing in her body—not out of fear, angst, convenience, or selfish concern. She found comfort in the knowledge that he was alive and would have the opportunity to grow and reach his God given potential.

At age 16 she understood and appreciated that “life aborted” was over and done—forever and ever. She understood “finality” at a very young age and was not willing to compound a careless moment into a lifetime of regret and guilt.

We were fortunate enough to meet her at age 45 soon before she died of cancer.

Let’s hope that Senator Jones is as perceptive and learned and caring as the 16-year-old birth mother of our son.

 

Kylan Lewis