Excerpt: Nameless No More: Finding Forgiveness After Abortion

Written by Shadia Hrichi

The tension started building up weeks ago, initiated by a conversation that arose at church one Sunday in between the morning’s sermon and Sunday school. I had just entered the church’s main reception area, pausing at the snack table to fix myself a cup of coffee, when I saw Beth pass by. I remember her once telling me she had attended the same retreat several years earlier.

“Beth!” I called out behind her.

She stopped to turn around. Hastily, I finished emptying three packets of sugar into my coffee before hurrying over to her. “Do you have a moment?” I urged, “I really need to ask you something.”

“Of course.” She smiled, encouraging me to go on.

Lowering my voice, I continued, “You know that retreat you once mentioned to me? The one for abortion recovery?” I paused, giving her a moment to shift gears. “I signed up to go. I’m nervous and wondering what it’s going to be like. Is there anything you can tell me ahead of time . . . you know, something that might make it a little easier?”

A tear glistened in the corner of her eye. Inclining her head toward mine, she whispered, “You will be asked to give your child a name.”

A silent wave of panic slithered beneath my skin. Every muscle stiffened as if bracing for a blow. I swallowed hard before a faint “thank you” tumbled from my lips. I don’t know what I expected her to say but I was certain of one thing: that wasn’t it.

“Are you okay?” Beth asked, gently placing her arm around my shoulder. I limply raised my hand, nodding I’d be fine.

But I wasn’t. Over the next several weeks, my mind refused to put the thought to rest. How can I possibly name this child? I never sensed a connection with her and, until now, hadn’t even thought of her as a her! I didn’t think of her as fully human, and naming her certainly never crossed my mind, not once. A name gives someone identity—something I didn’t think she had.

However, at some point I reasoned that if I still intended to go to the retreat, I’d rather choose a name now, in private and on my own time, rather than at the retreat on someone else’s schedule. Somewhere deep in my heart, I think I always knew my child was a girl. In the past, I would forbid such thoughts to linger in my mind, but today I allowed them to brush past every raw emotion until my mind finally accepted what my heart has known all along. My pregnancy was a child and my child was a girl. That’s when I resolved not to treat the matter of giving her a name lightly. As eagerly as I first dismissed the idea, I now made it my mission to find her the perfect name. Her name will have significance—a name that gives her at least one small piece of dignity. After all, it is the only thing I can offer her now.

And that’s when I switched on the ceiling fan in my home office and logged onto the Internet to research baby names. At first, it was rather fun. I looked up the meaning of my name, amused by the memory of my mother reassuring me, “Your name is beautiful! It means Singing Birds.” “More like Screeching Owls,” my friends would tease. I had to admit I always thought the meaning of my name was ironic considering the undeniable fact I have no musical ability. However, today I discovered my name also means Beautiful Voice (perhaps, as long as I don’t have to sing in public).

I searched the meanings of my brother’s name, my baby nephew’s name, and names of other family and friends. And then I saw it. Stunned, I nearly blurted the question out loud, “Who could possibly name their chi . . . ” But before the words could escape my lips, an icy chill ran down my spine. Every hair behind my neck stood on its end while my hands hovered mid-air, suspended over the keyboard. The moisture on my lips evaporated as I stared in horror at the words on the screen: “Anamika, meaning Nameless.”

I allowed the name to sink in. I knew I had just come face-to-face with something I thought I had convinced myself did not exist. Yet, a few strokes of the keyboard, a random web page, and three little words brought reality flooding to the surface: I had already named her: Nameless. Twenty-five years ago, I believed the lie that I was not taking the life of a child, my child. Today, I knew the truth. My child did live . . . and I let her die. And she died without a name. She became Anamika—one of the countless, faceless, nameless whose numbers only God could possibly grasp.

Tears welled up from the core of my soul as I buried my face in my hands, “God, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know! Please forgive me!” I allowed myself to cry, really cry, perhaps for the first time in many years. Finally, drained of all my tears, I collapsed back into my chair. As the stillness returned, I heard a gentle whisper rouse my soul. With deep love and compassion, I sensed God simply say, “It is time to give your child a new name.”

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