During those years of waiting in front of abortion clinics, I trusted that God would bring forth from my small efforts the fruit he saw fit. I was content to be obedient and faithful without reward. And yet, being offered just a sliver of that reward now, many years later, I am encouraged all the more to be faithful even in times when I don’t see visible fruit.

So much of life is spent waiting.

The mother waits months to hold the babe nestling in her womb. The parent devotes years of love and discipline in hopes of helping the child bloom. The Christian shares the gospel, trusting God to bring forth fruit in future days or months or years. And the farmer anxiously watches sun and rain for weeks to see if seeds will sprout. “Sow your seed in the morning, and at evening let your hands not be idle,” we read in Ecclesiastes, “for you do not know which will succeed, whether this or that, or whether both will do equally well.”

We know, of course, even as we wait, that many of the returns on our investments—whether of time, money, teaching, love, or labor—will never be seen in our lifetimes.

The place where God taught me the most about waiting was the abortion clinic.

For ten years, once a week, every week, I waited outside the abortion clinics in the city where I was then living, offering help to the women and men going in and coming out. At most of the clinics, it was nearly impossible to initiate a conversation because the sidewalks were often far from the clinic entrances. But sometimes patients would walk by or even go out of their way to talk to me—sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes out of anger, but most often out of desperation.

Most of the hours I spent outside the abortion clinic are now a blur of defeat and despair: an obscenity hurled by a passerby here; a confrontation with an angry boyfriend there; an occasional clash with volunteer escorts, clinic workers, or abortionists; freezing snow; sweltering heat; pouring rain.

However, punctuating all this failure every once in a while, a woman would change her mind—quietly, tearfully, joyfully, or all three—and decide not to have an abortion.

I estimate conservatively that, in a span of ten years, over the course of my weekly shifts, I saw at least 2,500 women go into the clinics (quite possibly twice that). Roughly a couple dozen of them told me upon leaving the clinic that they had decided to keep the baby. Some of them accepted the help I offered while others said they didn’t need it. And how many more changed their minds without ever speaking to me, I will never know on this side of heaven.

But even as I wait for eternity to reveal its secrets to us, God is gracious and kind in granting me—and all of us—glimpses now and then of the fruit of efforts performed in faith.

I received such a glimmer not long ago. It arrived—just a message on Facebook on a lazy Sunday afternoon:

I’m not sure you remember me. I met you 20 years ago outside of Women Services on Main St. … I was only 15 years old. You saved my son’s life. I was alone, there to start a two-day procedure. Day one of the would-be termination, they instructed me to wait at home come back the next day and have it completed. However, that night I felt my son move. The next day on my way into the building I met you. … I believe you read me some scriptures and made me aware of other options. So I decided to have the laminaria removed and continue with the pregnancy. That day you took me home and you never left my side, took me to your church, linked me to several agencies. You were truly a blessing to me. Today my son is almost 20 years old, away at college beginning his sophomore year. I miss him so much—he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. When I think of him I often think of you.

As I read the note, I became utterly undone.

Read More