'her'

There are moments in history everyone remembers. Where you were when Kennedy was shot, or whether you saw the second plane hit the south tower. Monday evening I was just about finished packing for the first of this year's 3 Christmases: a trip to Arizona to enjoy my in-laws and a rain-free week of fun. Time got away from me and I heard the 11 o'clock news come on in the living room. I probably wouldn't have heard what came next if it weren't for my shock at the late hour.

"The search for a baby boy has been called off today in Springfield...Angelica Swartout...confession..."

I flew to the living room just in time to see the mugshot of a beautiful girl I mentored years ago. I'll never forget the anguish and sadness I felt slam in to me like a semi truck. The news was talking about Angie. My Angie. This life that I had poured in to for years while she was in high school--was on the news. Her mugshot--was on the news. "NO!" I screamed to God. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening..."

Several weeks ago we reconnected on Facebook. I was so excited to accept her friend request, I didn't even hesitate. I wanted to catch up. To see what she'd been doing these past 6 years. I wondered if I'd see pictures of a boyfriend, a husband, a family. Was she working? Was she happy? We quickly made plans to get together and chat.

God has a funny way of not letting things happen. Her days off were chalk-full of commitments for me. My available days she was working. We'd get together when things slowed down after the first of the year, I told myself. Then she could meet Em and we'd have a great time.

They were talking about this person as if hers was yet another unimaginable story. It was the type of story I would have winced at and then turned the channel. "'She' is being held...," "...'her' family says..." Do these newscasters realize they're talking about a person? A real, live, person that I spent hundreds of hours with talking about college, chatting about boys, pondering life. I could have thrown a Christmas ornament at the TV if I could have mustered the strength. What gave them the right to refer to this amazing girl as "she" or "her" -- as if to have already forgotten her? A rich story of a child who practically grew up in a baby-mill fronting as a foster home. A story of an outwardly beautiful girl that couldn't see past her hand-me-downs to realize how her heart was more authentic and tender than most. How dare they use simple pronouns to describe Angie in this way?

The next day it really hit, and I realized the magnitude of her act. I was fried. I was sad, hurt...and pissed as hell. She didn't give birth to a stillborn baby, as told in numerous emails. She gave birth while working the nightshift alone at a motel, wrapped him in a dirty sheet, suffocated him in it and left him behind the motel in a dumpster.

I once heard someone say, "forgiveness isn't a one time thing. You choose to forgive someone over and over until one day it isn't a choice; it just is." So today I choose to forgive her; whether it's my place or not I don't know. But every letter I write in plain ball-point pen, addressed just-so with her inmate number will contain encouragement and love. Because I refuse to forget the 'her' that was once Angie.

I Refuse.