Uncommon Moms
Most credible scientists will admit that an embryo is a human being, with all of the DNA and chromosomes that a human being will ever need from birth to death.
But some researchers and lawmakers don't want you to know that. Because they want you to think it should be legal to use federal funds to destroy this human being—so small that it is nothing more than a "dot," claimed one U.S. Senator—to help cure diseases like multiple sclerosis and Parkinson's. This sort of spin has convinced a majority of Americans to support embryonic stem cell research (ESCR)—in which a human embryo is destroyed while its stem cells are harvested.
But just in case you're still a little squeamish with the idea, advocates are helpfully avoiding language that gives any hint of an embryo's humanity. So we can expect to hear less and less about "embryos" and more about "dots" as Congress prepares to vote on a bill that would lift President Bush's August 2001 ban on federal funding for ESCR.
It might be easy for pro-life citizens who don't want their tax dollars supporting the destruction of human life to feel discouraged as this debate unfolds. Because it may seem difficult for embryos that look like microscopic masses to compete with emotionally compelling people pleading for cures.
They can take heart, however, because pro-life moms are walking the halls of Congress. And they're cutting through all that emotional hype by showing politicians the faces of the embryos they're proposing to kill.
One of those faces belongs to Mikayla Tesdall, a bouncy 3-year-old girl with blond pigtails who loves to sing worship songs to whoever will listen.
Mikayla is a Snowflake—the name given to six dozen adopted babies who began life as frozen embryos. Not too long ago, these crawling, talking toddlers were stored in the freezers of in-vitro fertilization clinics across the country. They were labeled by many politicians as mere "excess," worthy of destruction, until the Nightlight Christian Adoptions agency in
In fact, it makes her downright angry, Sharon Tesdall told Citizen, when she hears those politicians discussing embryos as if they're just collateral damage, expendable in the name of "progress."
"It makes me just irate. Irate," she said. "The lies are being perpetuated and told so slickly that nobody has a clue. … Because they're talking about Mikayla. They are talking about how she began, and they want to kill her.'
"You just can't dispute that truth, you know," she added, "after watching that embryo grow inside you. I experienced that truth."
And that personal experience has transformed Tesdall and other formerly apolitical moms into passionate pro-life warriors. They've been surprisingly effective, gaining access to places even some of the slickest lobbyists can't get into, like the White House. That's because every elected official recognizes the danger of angering moms trying to protect children.
So when 10 Snowflake moms descended on Capitol Hill last September, national leaders of both parties met with them, including President Bush's top aides, who presented their children with boxes of "White House Crayons."
But these moms didn't come just for the souvenirs or a glimpse of the West Wing; they had a singular mission in mind: presenting Democrats and Republicans alike with undeniable proof that a human being is sacred and worth protecting at any stage—whether an embryo or a fully developed baby.
"What I had transferred inside me was a life," Tesdall said. "And it's because I love my child that I have to speak for those without voices—the other embryos."
'We Added Nothing'
Despite her passion, though, going to Capitol Hill was a frightening experience for Tesdall. "This is not a comfortable thing for me. I'm not a speaker. I'm not even the kind of person who likes getting on a plane by myself with my daughter," she told Citizen, laughing. "At first, I just wanted to have a baby. I didn't want to be a political spokesperson. But then God did a 180 with me."
She didn't change her mind about political involvement overnight. It was a long process—nine years to be exact. Nine years of struggling with a diagnosis of infertility, and of wrestling with God over His decision to take away her "right" to have a child.
But sadly, many do disagree. U.S. Senator Orrin Hatch, R-Utah, for one, claims to be staunchly pro-life. Yet he signed a letter in June, along with 57 other senators, asking President Bush to rescind his funding limits on ESCR.
Hatch claimed that the research would only affect "fertilized eggs that are going to be discarded anyway." After all, as Hatch once said, "life doesn't begin in a petri dish."
But his comments are misleading on two fronts. First of all, the very definition of "fertilization" is what happens when an egg and sperm join together to become a human embryo—so there's no possible way that an embryo could just be an "egg."
Which means, at best, that Hatch and other ESCR proponents are misinformed about basic biology.
Second, a survey of nationwide in-vitro fertilization clinics conducted by
The numbers break down like this: 88 percent are "designated for future attempts at pregnancy." Of the remaining 12 percent, only 2.8 percent (about 11,000) are available for research. (The rest are already allocated for adoption or destruction or are being held for other purposes.)
Now add to that reality, according to the
"Their real purpose," said Focus on the Family's bioethics analyst, Carrie Gordon Earll, "is to dehumanize week-old embryos and desensitize the public to the point that it will accept the cloning of human embryos for research.
"That's the next step."
Suzanne Murray and her husband were struggling with infertility when they heard about the Nightlight Snowflake program on a Focus on the Family radio broadcast. The couple had decided against in-vitro fertilization for fear extra offspring might be created that would one day be destroyed. So when they heard the broadcast, they jumped at the chance to rescue an already existing embryo and, at the same time, fulfill their lifelong desire for a child.
Not long after, they welcomed little Mary, who's now 15 months, into the world. "She fills hearts and arms that were so empty for so long," her mother told Citizen.
In fact, when Mary was implanted in her womb,
"People—even high-level congressmen—who claim to be pro-life are suddenly saying it's OK to destroy life if it's not yet in the womb," she said. "But it's a life, whether it's in the womb or in the petri dish."
After the press conference, Tesdall and Murray joined other Snowflake parents in a single-file procession down the halls of Congress. The site of a dozen blue strollers accompanied by a police escort caused many congressmen and their aides to stop and stare.
That's because children, much less a whole line of strollers, are a rarity on Capitol Hill.
D.C. isn't exactly the most family-friendly place, as Tesdall and Murray will readily tell you. Getting toddlers into crowded subways, cramming strollers into the trunks of taxis as impatient drivers honk, and then unpacking and repacking diaper bags each time they went through a government-building security line was a harrowing experience.
Both moms are from the much slower-paced suburbs of
The catalyst that thrust them together was Proposition 71, a California initiative passed in November that will allow a taxpayer-funded, $6 billion bond issue (including interest) to bankroll human cloning and embryonic stem-cell research in that state.
When the women learned there would be a
After waiting three hours to speak, Tesdall stood before her state legislators and pointed at Mikayla. "Look into the eyes of an embryo," she said. "This is my child." Her heart fell, she said, when she saw that many of the legislators were eating their lunches, chatting with one another, and basically ignoring her.
But rather than discourage the women, "the hearing, if anything, kind of enraged our passion,"
That turned out to be Capitol Hill. One week later, Murray and Tesdall boarded a plane to D.C. For three days, they shared hotel rooms, meals and taxis—and yelled timely encouragements to one another when crossing streets.
"God has a reason,
At first, when Tesdall and Murray entered his office with another Snowflake mom from his
"Those in the scientific field say gains are being made," he added.
Then, as if on cue, Tesdall and Murray moved directly in front of his desk, standing side by side, inches from his face. They were determined that, this time, they weren't going to be brushed aside by an elected official who's accountable to voters.
"But those scientists who told you that are the same ones asking you for money," countered
"That's what you should be doing," the Congressman shot back, offering to push for grants to promote more Snowflake adoptions. But Tesdall and Murray refused to take the bait.
"We are not here to ask you for money, we are here to ask you to vote [not to rescind Bush's funding limit]," insisted
It's 4 p.m., and Mikayla's tired. After a full day of visiting legislators in her stroller, she's sucking her thumb and leaning with eyes half closed against her mother as their taxi heads back to the hotel. Her mother, however, is finding it more difficult to wind down. She's still reeling from the conversation with Gerlach.
"He was being very polite," Tesdall says. "But you know what? His politeness is going to cost lives. Because when it comes to death, there is just no pretty way to package it."
"Although the Snowflake parents have valid concerns, there's another point to consider in this debate on stem cell research. There will always be parents who, for whatever reason, will never want their embryos used for adoption and otherwise those embryos will be destroyed with or without a change in federal policy."]
Nevertheless, the very next day Tesdall and Murray are at it again, weaving their strollers in and out of legislators' offices. One stop is the office of their own
Mikayla, who hasn't learned yet she's supposed to be afraid of liberals, is one of the first to speak when Boxer approaches. "This is me," the toddler proudly announces, pointing to a picture of herself as an embryo. "That is amazing," Boxer responds politely.
Of course the senator, who openly supports ESCR, doesn't convert on the spot. But neither does she turn down a photo op with the Snowflakes, even hugging and kissing a few of them.
Tesdall and Murray aren't disappointed, though. Because they recall how long it took for their own hearts to be softened by God's conviction. And that helps them understand that the battle to save lives won't be won overnight—it may happen one conversation, one changed mind at a time.
"Even if a legislator who supports [ESCR] just sees and remembers the faces of our children before they go to sleep at night, then we've accomplished something,"
"We're moms, not politicians," Tesdall said later, adding that, "I still believe in the roots of this nation. It was common people that came together and fought for this nation, for freedom and for life. And what are we? Like them, just common people. Just common moms."
This article appeared in Citizen magazine. Copyright © 2004 Focus on the Family. All rights reserved. International copyright secured.
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