I looked at my hands.

If you are on this website, then chances are you know my story. I participated in an ultrasound guided abortion, where I was holding the ultrasound probe. I watched a baby struggle for its life during the abortion. That’s why I do what I do now.

After the abortion was over, I stood there in shock, almost numb. Then, I looked down at my hands. There they were. One was on the probe, the other resting on the woman’s belly, the place where life once existed. I was hit by a startling reality. My hands had helped to kill thousands of children. These nicely manicured hands were responsible for the loss of so much life.

Suddenly, my hands seemed disgusting, like they needed to be separated from me, but they couldn’t be. This was me. I was this person. These same hands that held my most precious possession in the world the minute after she was delivered from my womb had robbed that moment, that joy, from countless other women.

These were the same hands that held my baby close when she cried. The same hands that held on to her hands when she was learning to walk. Were these really the same hands holding on to this ultrasound probe? Yes, they were.

I always notice people’s hands. People will say, “I look at their eyes or their smile.” For me, I always notice someone’s hands. My mother plays the piano. She has beautiful hands, piano hands. I see pianos and I think about how much joy I receive every time I hear her play and I immediately remember her hands.

My dad’s hands aren’t beautiful. I guess that’s the way it should be. He has the hands of devotion. He has scars on his hands from hard work, some he can recall, some he can’t recall. He has a permanent indention on his ring finger from the thick, gold wedding band he exchanged with my mother 34 years ago. His hands are callused and never moisturized, but practically turn into cotton balls when he holds my daughter.

My mom’s hands have not just played the piano and my dad’s hands are not always hard at work. Their hands have dried many of my tears, bandaged many of my cuts, scratched many of my itches, and held me tight when I needed love and encouragement. I think of their hands and I am reminded of the love I have received from them over the years.

For thousands of women, my hands will bring back hurtful memories. My hands have done terrible things, but then I am reminded of something beautiful. We are told in Scripture that we are “the hands and feet of Christ.” No one has more beautiful hands than Christ. And, His hands are now mine, so long as I accept His challenge. Christ didn’t give us His hands and feet so we could tuck them away. We are to show others how beautiful Christ is, and He is in us.

I choose to use my hands to work in the pro-life movement. I choose to stand up for Christ by standing up for the sanctity of human life. I try to do it every day. I want to come home with my hands dirty from the work of the Lord.

I don’t know how you are using the hands God has given you, but I believe there is no better place than the pro-life movement to use them. There are many good things to do with your hands, but most of them don’t save the lives of God’s children. I believe someone is waiting for each of us to extend our hand to them and share the message of life. Do that today. Get involved. Don’t wait. Don’t let the hands we have been given go to waste.