megiddo

“That’s wrong,” Tera says, and I see indignation settling in her eyes. Her voice is quiet, but fierce. “There’s nothing joyful about that. Nothing. Why are people taking pictures?”

From our position above the ruins of Megiddo, I look down at the circle of stones—the “high place” where untold numbers of infants cried and breathed their last—and my heart agrees. This is a place of abomination.

Our guide has just described the culmination of Israel’s idolatry, carried out long ago on the platform below. Drawn into paganism, they satisfied their idols’ blood thirst by offering up their first-born children.

“They had medicinal means of abortion,” he explained. “But often, if a girl conceived before marriage, she would carry out the pregnancy instead of opting for abortion. Then she’d bring her newborn here and sacrifice it to the gods, figuring that by fulfilling her obligation with this unwanted baby, she wouldn’t have to give up one she loved later.”

I see that girl in my mind. She walks the steps quickly, aware of the weight in her arms, but already hardened to its miracle—hardened too to the sounds of his cries, and the softness of his skin, and the potential of his life. She lays her burden down, and turns her back on innocence, and retreats again to her life.

How could anyone make that decision, and take that journey?

How does anyone do it today?

“History merely repeats itself. It has all been done before. Nothing under the sun is truly new” (Ecclesiastes 1:9 NLT)

Healing Hearts--for those dealing with the trauma of abortion.