Day in the Life of a Pro-Life Activist - Two Teams

I was recently doing a project called Choice Chain, (usually an hour-long project where we stand on the sidewalk holding pictures of Abortion Victim Photography, and have conversations with the public about abortion) and I asked a gentleman passing by, “What do you think about abortion?”

His answer was simple, but it struck me.

“I support the children.”

It seemed to me to point out a question that no one was asking. His answer showed me that, to him, the word “abortion” was about a conflict between two teams, “the Adults” and “the Children.” He had chosen to support the Children.

Looking around, I thought about all of the people who responded to my question with, “I’m pro-choice!” or “I support the woman!” From this man’s perspective, these slogans might be rephrased as “I’m anti-the-Child’s-choice!” and “I don’t support the Child!”

The reality is this: A “Pro-Choice Culture” is a culture that looks at two teams working against each other, and supports the stronger team at the expense of the weaker team.

In that fight, the weak team has NO chance of survival.

If we have decided that we support “the woman,” it means we have chosen a side, and it is not the side that protects the vulnerable.*

On this side of history, we can look back and say with pride that we would have supported William Wilberforce in the fight against slavery, Martin Luther King Jr. in the fight for civil rights, or Lewis Hine in the fight for child-labour laws, but what all of them have in common is that they looked at a fight between the Stronger Team and the Weaker Team, and chose to side with the Weaker Team. This side of history is also this side of the future, and if we won’t do the same as they did, we can reasonable assume that on the future side of this fight, we will be the ones to look back with shame that we chose the wrong side.

----

*I would like to clarify that I’m using the wording “I support the woman” in direct response to the way it’s used in response to my question, “What do you think about abortion?”

I will be the first person to say that if a woman is facing difficult circumstances surrounding pregnancy, we should ALL be supporting her. Anyone and everyone who can. She deserves no less.

That question is a fundamentally different one though. Had I asked, “What do you think about women facing difficult circumstances?” then “I support the woman” would certainly be an appropriate response. However, since I asked, “What do you think about abortion?” the answer “I support the woman” is to directly pit the mother against the child, and say that you are taking her side.

We should NEVER take the woman’s side against the child’s, nor should we take the child’s side against the woman’s. Both deserve support, respect, and as much care as we can provide them, since both are human beings who deserve to be treated with dignity.

Day in the Life of a Pro-Life Activist - Ashamed

Back to the streets today.

I'm frequently rattled when people are antagonistic toward me during pro-life activism. It's par for the course, but it still makes me shake.

I'm rattled, but like the shakiness, the memory quickly fades.

Every once in a while though, someone says something that has so much weight to it, their words stick in my mind. One such incident happened today.

I can clearly see his face in my mind's eye, and hear his voice as he said, "You want to reduce our society to holding *** pictures at the corner of the road. You should be ashamed of yourselves."

All I could think in that moment was of pictures like these:

When these photos began to circulate and be used as evidence of the horrific racial injustice that was going on in the 1950's and 60's, I'm sure many people would have echoed the sentiment:

"You want to reduce our society to holding *** pictures at the corner of the road. You should be ashamed of yourselves."

Turns out, the ones who are ashamed are the children of people who thought like that.

Day in the Life of a Pro-Life Activist - I'm Not Worth More

This week, we are finally back to activism! Moment of truth here: I have been really struggling with the shut-down, one of the main reasons being the fact that abortion was considered “an essential service,” but pro-life groups were shut down.

I decided back in September 2019 that I was going to pursue pro-life activism full time. I made plans toward that goal, and then COVID-19 happened and I sat around helplessly for 3 months; it was not a good feeling.

Feeling helpless, however, drew my mind constantly back to two things:

1. A scene from the 2004 movie, “Hotel Rwanda.”
2. Something I wrote when I first made the decision to join the pro-life movement full time. 

Hotel Rwanda is about a man named Paul Rusesabagina who helped victims of the Rwandan Genocide in 1994. The movie was hard to watch and often almost moved me to tears, but there was one scene in particular that I haven’t been able to get out of my head since.

Paul has been keeping a hotel full of guests/refugees safe amidst the horrific genocide of Hutus against Tutsis, staving off invasion until they finally receive help from the UN. The moment the UN soldiers come, you feel the same euphoria as everyone in the hotel, they are all going to be alright.

The euphoria lasts until Colonel Oliver (the leader of the UN peacekeeping forces) brings the news that the UN is not there to help them. They’re there to take the white people home.*

What struck me was this: As the white people lined up to board the bus that would take them to safety, many of them had to be physically pulled away from the Rwandans they had come to know and love. One young journalist tearfully tried to give money to a Rwandan woman, but they both knew that no amount of money would help her.

I felt like I could relate completely to the feeling of helplessness that those people must’ve felt. Simply because the UN valued their lives above the Rwandans,’ they were being taken to safety, and forced to leave their friends to be slaughtered.

I feel that helplessness every time I look at a picture of a victim of abortion. I feel it every time someone angrily asks “Why won’t you stand up for women?” My heart cries, “Why can’t I stand up for their children?”

Before writing what I am about to share with you, I had just read Amazing Grace by Eric Metaxas, (the story of William Wilberforce) and I was feeling inspired to jump into the fight against abortion with both feet in, yet I knew that there was one thing that would make this fight long and hard. This was what I wrote on September 30th, 2019:

I wish I could lay my life down to show that it’s not worth more than the hundreds of children that die every day all around me. I don’t see them, I don’t hear them, my children won’t meet them.

But I won’t die for them, because the people around me have deemed my life more valuable than theirs. Society will protect me, but it won’t protect them. Instead I must live for them. 

But it’s hard to live for someone you’ll never get to meet, to cry over someone who will die despite your tears. To love someone who will never know, because the one who should’ve loved them most decided that they were less valuable than you.

It’s hard. I haven’t even started, but my heart aches. I want to go faster, to work harder, to stay up late and get up early, if it would stop the heartache. 

Their hearts won’t ache like mine. Their eyes won’t see the carnage. Their little hands and feet won’t move anymore.

Their cause must be taken up by me. Their voice must be heard through me. My hands, my feet, must gesture and walk for them.

After all, isn’t my every heartbeat a gift? I’ll give it to them.

*I haven’t done a lot of research into the genocide of 1994, so my analysis of the situation in Rwanda in this post is based on my observation from the movie. There was a black man who seemed to be allowed to leave with the white people, so I don’t know if they were taking all citizens of other countries, but they were specifically leaving Rwandan refugees behind.

A Love Story, Part 5: The Creek

Click for Part 4: Guilty

Murky water splashed between Anthropy’s ankles and a soft wind brushed her hair into her emotionless face. It was the first day of the week and her parents were resting at home, but she preferred to sit on the old tree branch just over the creek. Weary eyes not focusing on anything in particular; deep in her chest her wound still throbbed, robbing her of what little energy she might have had to notice that the birds were singing, or that the sun sparkled on the water. It had been three years since Khriein’s arrest, and she hadn’t missed a day coming to the creek where they’d met.

Softly she sang an old lullaby that she’d learnt from her mother. She didn’t know what it was called, but her parents had declared it to be “At least as old as the hills.”

Woman, why weepest thou?

They have taken away my love, and I know not where they have laid him.

Woman, who seekest thou?

If you have taken away my love, tell me where you have laid him.

“Anthropy.”

The sound disrupted her apathy, startling her so violently that she overbalanced and crashed into the stream. Her ringing ears hadn't deceived her. The arms gently lifting her out of the water were more familiar than her own freckled nose. His strong arms were now riddled with scars, but looking at his face she encountered the same grin he’d given her the first day they’d met.

“Is it really you?” She tremored, barely audible.

“Of course it is!” He was laughing as he spoke, but his eyes were locked with hers, as though if he blinked he might lose her again.

Tears were streaming down both of their cheeks, and her smile suddenly crumpled. “Khriein, I’m so sorry. You should not have come back to me!” Her eyes searched his desperately as a sob threatened to tear from her throat.

He set her down gently and wiped her tears away, “Don’t you know you’re forgiven?”

She knew it then, and the old wound finally started to heal.

“Anthropy,” he probed, “Do you love me?”

She remembered his proposal, such a long time ago. His goofy grin as he blushed, the next moment declaring, “That is—I love you!”

She nodded. 

“Anthropy,” he said again, “Do you love me?”

She remembered the love songs he had sung to her in the barn; her wilful ignorance stung now.

“Yes,” she said.

“Anthropy,” he said a third time, searching her eyes, “Do you love me?”

She remembered the third time the judge asked her, “Are you sure you don’t know him?” and how she had sworn she didn’t.

“Yes!” Tears flowed freely, stinging the part of her heart that had decided to betray the one who loved her this much.

Grasping her hand, he knelt in the soft river mud and withdrew a ring from his pocket. “Anthropy, will you marry me?”

“Of course!” She cried.

He fitted the ring on her finger and scooped her up in his arms, warning her that he might never put her down again.

But this, of course, was only the beginning of their story.

A Love Story, Part 4: Guilty

Click for Part 3: Home

When Khriein arrived the next morning, he was met by Anthropy’s mother in tears, and her father pulling on his boots in a hurry. “She’s gone, isn’t she?” He asked, his heart dropping to the floor with a dull thud.

Her mother nodded despondently; eyes downcast.

“Don’t go,” he said to her father, “I know where to find her.” 

He kissed her parents, who had both become as dear to him as his own. With a promise to bring their daughter home, he vanished into the morning mist.

***

“Peor,” said Anthropy, thoughtfully. Running her fingers through the crystal clear water that surrounded their boat, she peered up at him. They had left in the evening and now a full moon illuminated the shore they were approaching.

“Yes?” 

“How will revenge help us?” 

He looked at her in astonishment, “If it doesn’t, nothing will. How can we go on knowing the masters are still living in comfort, with no consequences for what they did to us?”

“I know, but... what if we forgave them?” She countered. 

“Did Khriein put that in your mind?” His harsh answer disturbing the stillness of the night.

She didn’t answer and looked away. Peor knew he was right. “Look Ann,” he said, “I know you like Khriein. But did you ever discover that he was not the one who sold you? Just because he was willing to take you back doesn’t mean he didn’t benefit from your suffering. If he really had nothing to do with your enslavement, and he really cared for you, don’t you think he would be trying to do something about your trauma? Isn’t forgiveness just ignoring what you’re going through? You can’t just patch up a wound and pretend it isn’t there, you have to care for it in order for it to heal.”

She turned away again. It made too much sense, and it hurt too much to think about. 

Instead, she recalled what Ruhamah had told her about the farm. A week after they left, Master Vates released all the slaves. He told them he had a change of heart and gave them all money to help get them on their feet. The other masters were all sent away, and only Vates and his family kept the downsized farm operating. None of the masters had been punished for their cruelty.

The plan was simple. It was too much to try to hunt down every master who had worked there, and besides, they all took orders from the one who now considered himself “reformed.” They would arrive at dusk and as Anthropy kept watch, Peor would kill Vates. Under the cover of darkness, they would end the life of the man who had caused so much suffering.

She felt much better about everything the more she listened to him, so she spent much of the journey in silence, taking it all in. She convinced herself that as much as she wanted to trust Khriein, she really couldn’t, with so much evidence against him. Her “wound” from the farm had seemed to be healing when she was with Khriein, but she was now sure that all he had done was cover it up, for it stung now more than it ever had before. With each moment it grew worse. This, Peor explained compassionately, was simply the revealing of what was already there.

Her feelings about the farm and Khriein followed the same trajectory: The ache turned to resentment, and the resentment to anger. 

***

Instinctively, Khriein knew Peor would take Anthropy back to where he had found them. So just a few hours behind, he followed them all the way back to the barn, but when he got there, they had already moved on. A bit of asking around told him where they had headed, so following their path he continued. 

The last villager he spoke with mentioned seeing a young couple hurrying in the direction of “The Old Vates Farm” a few miles away, but he hadn’t even arrived before the local gossip reached his ears.

“Dead?!”

“Yes, the old farmer! Killed by a young girl, she’s on trial for murder today.”

“Upon my word! That’s extraordinary. Is there any more to the story?” 

“She claims an accomplice, but he’s nowhere to be found. Folks think she might not be ‘all there.’”

Khriein found out where the court was to be held and ran to it. Once inside, he saw Anthropy at the head of the room in chains. Her head hung low; she looked completely undone.

The judge was finishing the charges laid against her, concluding with her sentence: A quota of forced labour which would take her entire lifetime to fulfil. Khriein made his way to the front of the room, interrupting the judge, “Your Honour.”

“Silence—“ he started, but was interrupted again: “I would like to plead guilty.”

The judge stopped. “I’m sorry?” 

“I’m asking you to let her go, and give me her sentence.”

“Are you her accomplice? Did you kill Vates?”

“Yes,” came Anthropy’s voice.

It felt like an arrow hit his already shattered heart, but at least she gave him the help he needed to stay silent.

“He’s the one who killed Vates,” she said again. “I had nothing to do with it.”

The judge was understandably very confused by this turn of events. “Is this man a friend of yours?” He asked.

“No,” she answered quickly.

“How is it that you came to be accused then? Did you not say before that you had an accomplice? Is this the man?” The judge demanded. “If I discover that you’re changing your story, I can give you a harder sentence.”

Khriein remained silent while Anthropy carefully explained. “I tried to tell you that it was a man, not I, who killed Vates. This is that man. He is no friend of mine, I only saw him do it, and on my way to report it, I was falsely accused.”

“Your accent is the same,” the judge observed. “Are you sure you don’t know him?”

“I swear, I have never seen him before last night!” She cried, avoiding Khriein’s tear-filled gaze.

The judge turned to Khriein, “Is this true?”

He was silent for a moment before asking, “Do you think it’s true?”

***

Khriein’s promise to return her to her parents was kept, though he couldn’t personally bring her to them. They found her crying on the porch, too ashamed to go inside.

In the days that followed, she realized that her “wound” had not begun at the farm, as Peor had suggested. It began on the Ophidia, the moment she had begun to doubt Khriein’s love. She realized too, that though Khriein had helped it to heal, she had allowed it to be opened again when she doubted him the second time.

The more time she spent focusing on it, the more it grew, and the moment she had accused Khriein of her own guilt, it was as though it had become infected. It was with this infected sore that she now lived, having no idea how to begin to care for it.

Part 5: The Creek

A Love Story, Part 3: Home

Click for Part 2: Peor

“Khriein.”

He was putting the finishing touches on the Arca, but he knew that voice; he had been waiting for this moment.

“Anthropy?” He dropped his tools and came out from behind the boat; she stood in the doorway, crying. Tears were falling on his own cheeks as he wiped hers away, and they fell faster when he realized her face was bruised. He didn’t know how long the bruises had been there; she hadn’t let him this close to her since the Ophidia.

“I’m sorry Khriein,” she sobbed, “I should’ve trusted you.”

He brought her into the house and asked his boss’s wife to take care of her. “Give her everything she needs,” he instructed, “I’ll pay whatever it costs.” She gave her some clean clothes and showed her to the bath, with the promise of a hot supper to await when she finished. 

They talked through everything that had happened since their engagement; the final part was when Ruhamah showed up at the barn.

She had told Anthropy of her discovery that her brother was really the who had sold her, not their father. He had gone along as though he had been captured too, just to keep up the lie. His plan was to leave before they ever got to the farm, but since he couldn’t convince Vates (the owner of the farm) to let him take Anthropy along, he waited til the only masters on guard were ones he could bribe. "Now," she told her remorsefully, "He is seeing another woman." 

Ruhamah left after her report, pleading with Anthropy to escape with her, but she insisted on confronting him. He was intoxicated when he came back to the barn, as was often the case.

She asked him about it and he laughed.

She asked again and he beat her.

He had run out of steam and she had run from the barn as fast as her legs would take her.

The Arca set sail with two passengers the next morning.

*** 

Home. 

It felt like forever since Anthropy last saw it, but there it sat, just the same. Khriein held her hand just as he had many times on the same path, though so much had changed. He left her in the care of her grateful parents that night, promising to return in the morning. The coming days were full of happy tears and reacquainting.

One-night Anthropy dreamed that someone was calling her name. She awoke, only to realize the voice was still there, calling. Just outside her window stood Peor. 

“Ann!” He called. 

She rushed to the window and whispered, “What are you doing here?” “I need to talk to you!” He begged, “Please open the window and let me in.”

Her better judgment pleaded with her to tell him to get lost, but her hands found the latch and undid it. Before she knew it, he was climbing in. He reached for her hands but she pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he said, the pain in his voice was audible. “I made a mistake, I should never have let you go.”

“Why are you here?” Her voice trembled. 

“I needed to see you. I have been wretched ever since you left.”

“You need to go,” Anthropy said, glancing behind her nervously. She let him out and went back to bed; the duration of her night was spent restlessly tossing.

Peor didn’t stay away, he made it a nightly routine to show up at her window and call; often she didn’t sleep until he had come and gone.

She decided not to trouble Khriein about it, but he could tell that something was troubling her. “Are you okay?” He would ask, and she would nod, smiling. 

One night, after Peor had climbed in the window to escape the rain and was dripping all over her wood floor, he looked beyond her just long enough to make eye-contact with Khriein, who stood in the hallway just outside her room. He had come to retrieve a tool lent to Anthropy’s father, and he stared at Peor with calm disgust. Peor looked down at her smiling, pulling her closer. They whispered softly and Anthropy giggled. Looking up again, Khriein was gone.

“Ann, I have something to tell you.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m going back to the farm.”

She pulled away, concern written all over her face. “Why?”

“Justice.” His eyes were hard with resentment as he said this; a sentiment she well understood, though Khriein had encouraged her to forgive the masters. She knew Peor to be capable of giving them back what they gave.

“But Peor,” she countered her own thoughts as she quoted Khriein, “They will get what they deserve. Shouldn’t you move on?” 

He shook his head, “I can’t. They didn’t just take my freedom from me, Ann. They took you.” A tear slipped down his cheek and he explained, “The damage they did to my mind was enough to make me drown my sorrows. If they hadn’t abused me I would never have lost to the drink, and I would never have lost you.”

An image of Khriein crying for her in the workshop passed through her mind, but she quickly dismissed it. She knew if she thought about him, she would have to turn Peor away. She didn’t want to. 

“Come with me,” he said abruptly, grasping her hands. “Let’s show them that we are stronger than they are. Let’s prove together that what they did to us was unforgivable.” 

Her window was left open and her bedroom empty that night.

Part 4: Guilty

A Love Story, Part 2: Peor

Click for Part 1: How It Began

Khriein and Anthropy were spending the day together, making spontaneous decisions and not minding the time, when Anthropy noticed a curious sight.

“Look Khriein, what’s that?”

He turned to look where she was pointing. An unusual object was positioned on the water just a few miles away from the harbour. “Why don’t we find out?” He suggested. 

On closer inspection, they realized that the object was a boat, and unusual it was! The entirety of the craft was painted a blue-ish green, almost completely blending it in with its surroundings.

Crouching behind a boulder by the rocky cliff, Khriein squinted at the suspicious sight. A muffled scream tore through the stillness and Khriein whipped around. To his horror Anthropy was being dragged away by a burly mercenary, shock filled eyes crying out what her mouth couldn’t. That was the last he saw, for as he sprang towards her his head exploded in pain and he crumpled into unconscious darkness.

***

Anthropy was dragged aboard the boat they had been spying on. The disconcerting aesthetic of the boat was only achieved by its perfect cleanliness above deck, but below was another story. Alongside piles of debris and refuse, there were other people there. Like her they were shackled to the wall, and like her they were silent, confused, and scared.

Her captors went above deck, and she could hear their footsteps and voices as they got ready to sail again. The light that shone from the top of the steps disappeared when the door slammed closed, just before the boat lurched into motion. The noise above them was muffled almost to silence. 

It seemed ages before anyone spoke, but eventually the silence was broken by a girl’s voice, “What’s your name?” She asked. 

“Anthropy,” she answered, timidly. 

“I’m Ruhamah,” the voice returned. “I’m sure you’ll want to know where you are. I’ve been here for a few days already, so I may as well tell you what we’ve learned, since no one else will.” 

She appreciated her talkativeness. 

“This boat is called the Ophidia, it’s taking us to a farm. It must be somewhat large, because the captain has been paid to capture 39 slaves to help run it. Welcome to the team.” 

Ruhamah and Anthropy continued to talk quietly together, asking questions to fill the time and calm their uneasiness. When Anthropy told of her betrothal to Khriein, a male voice joined the conversation. “So, he’s the one who sold you into this mess?” 

The audacity of his question stunned her into silence. “Sorry, Ann. This is my brother, Peor,” Ruhamah said. “I didn’t mean to offend,” Peor said. He was silent for a moment. “Don’t you know who did it?” 

A million thoughts were going through her mind, and she hadn’t a clue how to answer. Had someone sold her? Did she know who it was?

The slapping of the waves against the hull was deafening, but the ears of the captives were full of the roar of their own thoughts. Anthropy finally asked, “Do you know who sold you?” “Our old man,” Peor replied, his voice resentful. Anthropy gasped, “I’m so sorry.” 

Another few moments of silence passed before Peor asked, “What’s his name?”

“…Khriein.”

***

“Psst! Ann!”

Anthropy’s sleep had been light ever since the first night she spent on the Ophidia, over a year ago. She opened her eyes to see Peor crouching near her, “Come, quickly.” He urged. She obeyed, noticing the rest of the slaves still fast asleep on the ground. 

A few of them had tried to escape before, but the masters were always alert and the malnourished slaves were easily overpowered. Somehow, no one seemed to be around to notice them slipping past the rest of the slaves and approaching the gates. Anthropy held her breath; there were always masters there. They sat in their usual places, but by their feet lay empty bottles of rum. Peor grabbed her hand as they rushed by. Once they had passed them, they both broke into a run.

 “Peor, what about Ruhamah?” She asked once they had slowed to a walk. 

“I couldn’t risk having another person along,” he explained, pulling her close by the hand. His eyes looked deep into hers, “…but I couldn’t leave you behind.” 

The way he looked at her made her feel safe. She had long since accepted the fact that Khriein had betrayed her, but Peor had been with her through hardship and was still by her side; she felt she could trust him.

***

“Good work today, Khriein!”

He looked back at his colleague as he finished putting away his wares of corn, oil, and wine. It was a year ago that he had become a traveling merchant, putting aside his trade for the less steady income of a peddler. 

“Thanks Levi, same to you!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us tonight?” Levi asked, “I hear great things about the night life in this town.”

Khriein shook his head, “No thanks, I’m busy.”

Every night for the past year he had said the same thing to the other merchants he traveled with, “I’m busy tonight, go without me.” Every night he went through the new town asking everyone if they knew anything about the boat or Anthropy. So far he had been completely unsuccessful.

*** 

Neither was prepared for the day they were reunited. Khriein was on the merchant wagon when he saw her. They were driving through farmland; she was feeding pigs.

“Anthropy!” He called, but she was too far away to hear. Taking no time to think through what he was doing, he leapt off the wagon and landed on hands and knees. He found himself running faster than he ever had before, but he was still far in the distance when a man walked out of the barn toward her. Khriein slowed down, watching as Anthropy ran into his arms.

In a moment, he understood what it felt like for a heart to break. His steps became heavy, sinking into the ground. They noticed him then, but neither seemed to recognize him. Soon he noticed something change in Anthropy’s expression, and he knew she knew him.

“Khriein,” her voice trembled.

“Go get more feed,” Peor commanded, she obeyed immediately. Peor stepped forward, arms crossed. “Get out of here,” he said firmly.

“Who are you?” Khriein asked.

His answer was matter-of-fact, “Legion. Peor Legion. Ann’s lover.”

He paused for a moment, observing Khriein trying painfully to make sense of everything in his mind.

“I know who you are,” Peor said.

Khriein snapped back to focus, “Who am I then?”

“It doesn’t matter. As far as Ann is concerned, you’re dead. She has tried to forget you, and after today, neither of us will mention your name ever again. So leave now and forget her.”

Khriein turned to leave, and Peor smiled smugly, but then he stopped. “I will not leave her.”

He turned back and saw fear creep onto the face of his rival. “Maybe I am dead to her, but love is as strong as death, and jealousy as fierce as the grave. You may stand between us now, but I will fight til you give way, and I will love her until she loves me in return.”

He left then, heart aching, but more determined than ever to win her back. The memories contrasted in his mind of the girl he had fallen in love with, and the girl who now loved another. Sweet and innocent was the first; used and fearful was the second. He knew love would restore her, if given the chance.

Thus began a new chapter of their lives; he hired himself as an apprentice to a boat-builder. This was a fitting task, since they needed someway to get home once she trusted him again. Everyday he went to work, then walked to her barn. (He discovered that she and Peor were living there in exchange for their work with the pigs.) If Peor was there, (which he often was not) Khriein would try to reason with him, but would eventually turn back. If he found Anthropy alone, he talked to her, sang to her, and begged her to come home. She would not answer him any questions about her capture or about Peor, except that she loved him. 

After he finished his fruitless endeavour, he would walk back to his shop and work on his project: The boat that would take them home. He was calling it “Arca.”

Part 3: Home