The Purpose

January 5, 2016

"...and he killed himself," I said to the few protesters left.

They continued to push their beliefs on other bystanders walking among them, ignoring the story I had told completely, ignoring the women standing on a turned over box that once contained fruit.

"Abortion is an option!" one woman yelled.

"Pro-choice is pro-life!" another said.

"Unborn lives matter!"

"Stop abortion now!"

"Please...please listen to me," I said, too quiet for anyone to hear me.

As I sighed, looking down and feeling my attempts were hopeless, I saw one of today's papers flipped open to a random page showing a picture of the Michigan Avenue Bridge with the bolded headline "FOSTER CHILD KILLS HIMSELF, ONE OF A MILLION THIS YEAR."

"Enough is enough," I whispered to myself, warm tears falling down my cheek as the cold breeze chilled my body. I wiped them away, sobering up.

"I can't tell you the meaning of a life," I shouted, making sure I was as loud as I could be. "I can't tell you that killing babies is a good thing to do; I can't tell you if abortion is murder because I don't know, but I did know this boy. I was his case manager, watching his struggle and doing what I could to help. He didn't deserve the life he was given. He deserved the love of a mother and better opportunities for success. He would never have gotten that with the life that was chosen for him. His mother created life just so her family wouldn't disown her like she did with her own baby."

By the time I was done speaking, all of the protesters had moved on to another location as they realized that I had captured the attention of everyone around me. They no longer had control of the message being sent.

Only one person, one child, remained holding a poster that said, "Stop killing babies" with drawn on fake blood dripping from the letters. He had placed the poster on the ground and as he needed both hands to hold his pool of tears. I stepped down from my makeshift podium and kneeled next to him.

"Where's your mother?" I asked, concerned that he was left alone on the streets of Chicago.

"Sh-she went over there," He pointed in the direction where the protesters had moved to while wiping the snot dripping from his tiny nose.

"How old are you?"

"Seven and a half," He sniffled.

I felt a tinge of regret for telling such an intense story in front of someone so young and innocent. I had no idea that my audience wasn't just full of adults.

I smiled down at him, "What's your name?"

"Blake."

"Why are you crying, Blake?" He didn't say anything for a second while he used his coat to clean up his wet face.

"I don't want someone to live without love. My mommy always packs me a sandwich, and an apple, and a cookie for school and...and she leaves me a note that says 'I love you'. I thought everyone got paper bag lunches."

"There you are," the assumed mother said, running towards us. "I thought I told you to never leave my side!" She leans down and gives him a hug before noticing his red puffy eyes. "Have you been crying baby," The mother said softly as her forehead scrunched up with concern.

"The lady's story was so sad. I-i couldn't help it."

The mother's lips pressed together as one corner turned slightly upwards with understanding. "Come on. Grab your sign and let's get you some ice cream ok?" The little boy nodded in agreement, looking down at his feet. He had his sign in one hand and his mother's arm on the other.

"Thank you for watching him," the mother said to me. "Your story was touching."

And with that, the boy and his mother walked away.