Birthright: Our Pleas for Life

By Michael Rennie Vinet

Michael Rennie Vinet knits a story of five young adults from different walks of life in the city of Redemption. Amy is The Flower Girl. Even though she has special needs, it doesnt stop her from giving a rose to all the hurting people she encounters. Kevin is a go-getter with ambition. Growing up, he notices that he doesnt share the same hereditary traits with the rest of his family. Is he adopted? The truth is far worse than he imagines. He is able to overcome this blindside and reach out in forgiveness. Bethany is a young cancer researcher trying to find that elusive cure in honour of her little brother who dies of the disease. Anthony follows in his grandfathers footsteps as a cop. He has worked as an internet crime specialist and is now running an undercover operation where the drug dealers lurk. Davin finds salvation in a most unique way. He is able to shed his life of sin and goes to work for God Almighty. These are Redemptions darlings. But their stories unravel from there. A villain emerges. It comes to steal, kill and destroy and has all the legal authority to do it. Abortion. In their own words, these people talk about how their trajectories are bumped off course by an alternate decision

BIRTHRIGHT is a compassionate plea for life! It sensitively declares that we all have that rightno matter who we are! It may inspire you to rethink your views

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512754667

Michael Rennie Vinet

Michael Rennie Vinet is an advocate for unborn children and anyone who is the “least of these”. He has worked with physically and mentally challenged people in Roseau, Minnesota and lives in Vassar, Manitoba. Michael is working on a new novel that spotlights the persecution of Christian teenagers in the high school arena.

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Copyright © 2016 Michael Rennie Vinet.

Cover design by Janet Begalke-Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the Contemporary English Version © 1991, 1992, 1995 by American Bible Society, Used by Permission.

WestBow Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-5464-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-5465-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-5466-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016913909

WestBow Press rev. date: 9/19/2016

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Amy Anne Findlay

Kevin Edwin Reitman

Bethany Joanne Sutton

Anthony Drew Carlyle

Davin Robert Machado

Undone, Ungiven, Unsaid, Un—May 17, 1989

Amy

Kevin

Bethany

Anthony

Davin

More from Amy, Kevin, Bethany, Anthony and Davin

The Road Back to Redemption

For Roberta V.,

my mom, who sacrificed

so much for John, Maurice,

Brigitte, Rhena, Roxanne and me—her children

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Children are a blessing and a gift from the Lord.

—Psalm 127:3 (CEV)

But with your own eyes you saw my body being formed. Even before I was born, you had written in your book everything I would do.

—Psalm 139:16 (CEV)

As soon as the sound of your greeting reached my ears, the baby in my womb leaped for joy.

—Luke 1:44 (CEV)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was a shared effort. I did not do it alone. These people might be just names to you, but they are blessings to me.

Danuta Kwoczynska, you were instrumental in the conception of this important topic. You told me I should write this, so I have. You have been my champion. Thank you from the bottom of my human heart.

Lori Morgan, thanks for the great ideas for the science projects included in this book. In a Facebook plea, I asked people if they could help. You were the only one who did. You helped to shape Bethany’s character, so you definitely have a place in this book.

Dale Walsh, you are a lady and dear friend who gave me great input and your blessing for this story.

John Goos, thank you for your information on birthrights in Biblical times and how they relate to abortions today. It was a revelation.

My team at WestBow Press, thank you for all your help in realizing a new dream and being there to bring it to life.

Janet Begalke-Smith, thank you for the gorgeous cover. You are a true talent. You helped make my vision a reality.

I want to say a big thank-you to all those who prayed for this project, including the people of Badger Baptist Church in Badger, Minnesota, and all the individuals who knew about this story. This is proof that God hears and acts.

This project is for the glory of Almighty God, the God of the universe, the Alpha and Omega, the triune God who longs to know each of us intimately and personally. However, we have to get born first for this process to work. It’s a two-way street. This was a project of love for readers and for Him. He guided me through this creative work, and I thank Him for this gift and blessing. I lift Birthright up to You, Lord, again. You definitely are the God of second chances. This story needed an overhaul and tweaks here and there. You showed me that it needed much more grace than what I had given it. Grace is what You’re all about. I want writing this story to be my act of worship to You. I know songs can tell stories, but I hope this story sings songs of truth, hope, redemption and, ultimately, peace and love. I hope it plays a sweet melody for You.

Amy Anne Findlay

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M y name is Amy Anne Findlay, and do I have a story for you.

I was born on November 25, 1989, in the city of Redemption. My mother and father loved me from the moment I was born—even if it was in the middle of the night at precisely 2:36 a.m. It would be the first of many dark nights I would keep them all awake. Well, in some ways, I was like every other baby who had needs, such as a diaper change or a bottle of formula at any and all hours in a 24-hour period. Nobody in my family got much sleep that particular night, including my brother, Jack, and my sister, Hollyn. They didn’t mind staying up late, though. They were going to have a new brother or sister! Jack hoped for a brother, and of course, Hollyn hoped for a sister. Well, Hollyn won that lottery. Jack was sour that she had victory, but he got over it pretty quickly and started to adore me.

Jack was a precocious 8-year-old who possessed boyish bluster that would always be with him into adulthood. Goodness knows it would come in handy when it came to me. Jack was Dad’s mini-me. His hair was thick and luxurious, even for a boy. It was a light brown that easily caught the sunlight. His eyes were warm, dark amber and seemed kind, but that sincere approachability could be a deception. This was where his bravado was useful. It made other people misjudge the vulnerability that his opposition thought he had. He was already lofty for his age and the tallest in his class.

Hollyn was blond like Mom. She had a young Shirley Temple cheerfulness about her and an innocence that would eventually have to be discarded for a hard truth that she would have to adapt to as she got older. The truth was how ugly and atrocious people could be when it came to individuals who were out of the ordinary. I would see her as my pretty older sister. I thought she could be a TV or movie star like Hilary Duff was in her heyday.

My mother held me in her arms in her hospital bed and saw that I was pretty cute, as my brother and sister were when they were freshly born. She whispered to my father, Are we doing the right thing? I’m scared to death.

My father smiled with well-cared-for teeth and spoke with tears in his eyes. A few months ago, I wasn’t so sure. But now that I see our beautiful Amy Anne, I can’t imagine life without her. I’m in love with this strange little bird with her hair sticking up all over the place. Look at it!

They laughed softly so they wouldn’t wake me. Yes, I came into the world naturally and with no real complications. I was seven pounds and three ounces. I had sprigs of blond hair sticking up, and I did look like a little exotic bird. My eyes told a different story. They were shaped differently from theirs. They signified that I wasn’t like the rest of my family.

The Findlays had been expecting it, though.

I was diagnosed with Down’s syndrome, which meant that I had an extra chromosome. I had 47 of them in all.

Yes, I was pretty cute, even with a rather small chin and a flat nasal bridge. My tongue stuck out a lot, and my face was flat and broad. But my eyes were the most remarkable features on my face. They contained colours found in Mediterranean seawaters—vibrant blues and greens. One of the side effects of Down’s syndrome was the skin fold on the inner corner of each eye. This condition was formerly known as mongoloid folds. But that was the old way of saying things about my condition. I’m glad I was born in the late ’80s.

My parents, Solomon and Greta, sacrificed a lot for me. My brother and sister were harassed and made fun of because of me in their school experiences, but they were troopers. Those bullies who bothered them were ignorant. They needed to get a life. Jack got into bloody fights over me. I was his little sister, and he learned early that he was to protect me whenever my parents weren’t around, including in school. He took on those other boys and wore his scrapes, black eyes and busted lips as badges of honour. Nobody harassed either of his sisters and got away without a few Findlay stamps of disapproval. Hollyn too was ridiculed and badgered for my visible mental and physical disabilities. But Hollyn wasn’t scared or intimidated by these people either. She brandished words of her own and said that maybe their mental statuses should be questioned. She not only fought with words but also got into a few physical scrapes herself. She knew who she was. She was secure in her standing in this school and wouldn’t let those mean-spirited kids ruin her and my educational experiences. Both Jack and Hollyn would do anything to protect me. They proved it again and again. They were my brother and sister bears. Forget mama bear—those two could be just as lethal!

I had a few run-ins with a kid named Davin Machado. He was kind of mean and an icky boy who liked to pass gas and belch and laugh about it. I heard him in the hallways at school. He was disgusting! It was a good thing that neither Jack nor Hollyn found out what he was saying and doing to me, or he’d have been one sorry icky boy! But I had a different approach for people like him.

As I grew in development and began my career in the school system in special education, I was seen by a lot of people. Some of them were really nice to me. Some, though, looked at me as if I were some odd animal at the zoo. Yeah, my eyes gave away that I was different, but that was not all they stared at.

I had a short neck and short fingers, and I was short in stature. Everything was short. I was just a smidge under 4 feet 11 inches at my peak of growth. I was kind of chubby, with a few marshmallow rolls around my belly, and my legs and butt were well padded. I’d get comments about the shape of my body, mostly from the other kids in school, including Davin Machado, who was the worst. He called me bad names because I was overweight, even as a little kid. It wasn’t as if I ate food with wild, reckless abandon. Part of my problem was that my metabolism didn’t work right. I had a hard time being active because of the weight, and I could only move slowly. I saw how my brother and sister looked as children, as well as the other kids in school who weren’t carrying around extra packaging. I recognized the differences, but I was fortunate and blessed that my family was a great support system for me. I knew my parents were worried about other people’s words hurting me. Yes, I had emotions and learned that the bad words people said to me were meant to show that I wasn’t normal. My feelings got hurt like everyone else’s. I knew in my limited mind that people hurt others badly when they didn’t understand them or look at them in a way that they wouldn’t want to be looked at themselves.

People sometimes looked at me with an extra interest that wasn’t about including me as someone they would like to get to know better, understand or befriend. The kids and adults I encountered had many different labels for a person like me. I think you know what those labels are. My parents told me and my siblings that those words were hurtful and bad and should not be used in our house or anyone else’s. Those words were not to be applied to me. I was one of their beautiful daughters—period.

Those words that some of the people used set me apart from them. There was a division—a fence that conveyed I was on one side and they were on the other. I decided to put a gate on my side, though, just in case they changed their minds. I would make it so that the gate could swing in or out. I wanted people to know me and be friends with me. I knew that concept.

Davin was mean. Whenever he saw me, he’d screw up his face as if what he saw were irritating to his senses. I can’t really repeat the words he’d say to me, but they were about my disabilities and my weight problem. Can you see why I didn’t like him much?

Whenever I went barefoot in the summer, people could see the wide space between my big and second toes. My brother called me Monkey Feet, and I’d call him Weirdo. He’d laugh at me and say, Is that all you got? That was in regard to my inventive word choice. But we were just joking with each other. That’s what siblings do.

Jack and I had a unique relationship. Because he was eight years older than I was and had different interests like those of other kids in his peer group, he couldn’t really relate to the things I liked to do and the mental capacity I had at 11. I still liked little kid cartoons and nursery rhymes, and I’ll always have a childlike mind, even when I get into my thirties. However, he treated me as if there were nothing wrong. I was his bratty, annoying little sister who liked to hug him. He didn’t mind my hugs as long as I didn’t hug him in front of his friends. He had an image to uphold! Yeah, whatever! I was a hugger. My parents were always hugging me when I left for school and when I came back. I got hugs at bedtime with a kiss on the forehead. I liked hugging and being hugged. I felt loved and connected with the people I most treasured.

Jack didn’t seem to mind when I touched the funny brown hairs on his chin because I found them weird and fascinating. I asked him why they were there, and he said that when you become a grown-up man, you get hair on your face, you get bigger muscles and you think about girls a lot. Well, okay!

Just before he went away to college, Jack said he was worried because he didn’t want anyone to hurt me. I didn’t tell him about some of the kids who were bothering me, such as Davin Machado. Something told me to be quiet about him. I knew that my brother would break faces and fight to the blood if he had to. He had always told me that nobody was going to mess with me, not while he was around. But he also told me that when he wasn’t around, I should always tell Mom, Dad, Hollyn or my teacher if anyone was harassing me or just call him at college. I’ll come down and bust some heads! he said. We both laughed. I hoped it would never come to that. I didn’t want people fighting and hurting each other. I was glad I didn’t know the concept of revenge. I just wanted all of us to be kind and nice to each other.

Some weekends during the summer, Mom and Dad would let Hollyn, Jack and I pitch a tent and sleep outside while the stars were out to play. We’d have a little fire in the pit out back and have messy s’mores, which I somehow got all over my face. Jack and Hollyn got sticky chocolate and gooey marshmallows all over their chins and fingers too. We even got to drink root beer. Jack would say, Let’s pretend it’s real beer! Ah, my brother! He’d tell scary stories about ghosts and zombies that would practically gel up my blood with fear. He was purposely scaring me, saying that a zombie might come for us that night! I’d huddle between the two of them for their protection. Hollyn would tell Jack to stop scaring me and say, He’s just being a stupid boy! There’s no such thing as a zombie or a ghost. You see them on TV, but they are make-believe. You’re safe with us—or at least me. Promise.

I asked about Santa Claus on one of those nights. Wasn’t he real? I wanted to hear what they had to say as the fire crackled, and the stars seemed to be twinkling in anticipation of what my older siblings might come up with.

I caught a look between Hollyn and Jack—a conspiratorial glance—as Jack said, Yeah. Yeah, he’s real. Who else brings us our presents?

Jack was lying. I knew for a fact that Mom and Dad bought our presents. I might have had a lesser mind, but I had working eyes, and I could see the presents hidden in the closet in their bedroom. I went in there once to find Mom, but I saw the open closet instead, with the wrapped gifts in there. Mom was careless for not shutting the closet door, or maybe she’d just forgotten. Good for me! Of course, I got curious and saw the labels with Hollyn’s, Jack’s and my names on them. Some of my presents were big. This was about three weeks before Christmas. From what I knew, Santa delivered presents to all the children in the world by Christmas morning. Well, either he came early that year, or Mom and Dad had been at the mall. I think those gifts came from the mall. That was my first clue.

The second clue was when I recognized Mr. Dawson in a Santa suit, and he looked like no Santa. Mr. Dawson was thin, and Santa was well maintained in the weight department, if you know what I mean. Plus, his white cotton beard was sagging down, and I could see his dark stubble. He also tried to deepen his voice as if he were an old, jovial grandfather. He didn’t fool me. I thought he was faking!

The third clue was when I saw Mom and Dad eating the cookies and drinking the milk meant for Santa one year when I was 9. I had heard a noise like stairs creaking, and I thought maybe it was Santa Claus. I hoped to catch him in the act of putting the presents underneath the tree. Then I heard my dad say, We do this every year. We’re going to get fat! You know, on TV, the camera adds ten pounds. I’m going to have to hit the gym again!

My mom laughed in agreement and said, I can afford to gain a little weight. I’m not the one giving the news! They kept on eating the plateful of cookies and taking turns swigging out of the milk glass, and they never found out that I was watching them through the slats of the stair railing.

So I might have Down’s syndrome, but even I can think for myself with the evidence in front of my face. But I played along.

My siblings and I enjoyed our campfire nights, just the three of us, and I always felt as if I belonged. I loved seeing the fire shoot sparks into the night sky and smelling the wood smoke in my nostrils. I loved feeling the closeness of these two special people in my life. Those nights are some of my favourite memories.

Jack told me that even though I was a royal pain, he loved me very much. He wasn’t afraid to say so when it was just us two. He even told me once that I was one of the greatest things to happen in his life, even though I turned out to be another girl. That last part was a joke, and he said that if I ever told anyone how he really felt about me, he would deny it. But seriously, I knew what was in his heart concerning me. I was cherished there. Just for the record, he loved our sister too, but he would never admit that to her in a thousand years, because she was just so annoying, he claimed. He told me to guard this secret with my life. Another joke!

My relationship with Hollyn was pretty typical too. She didn’t see me with Down’s syndrome. She just saw me. She was still protective, though. But she was doing more of her own thing over the years. She was into her school friends and all the trappings of young girldom—that was a word I made up. Pretty creative, eh? As Hollyn got older, she had less and less time for me. She was out of the house a lot, participating in extracurricular activities, going to the mall with her friends and trying to do her homework in peace without her mentally disabled sister bugging her. She would never say that, but I just did. Again, she never thought of me in that way. Eventually, she discovered the wide world of boys. Ick!

I missed our campfire days, but once in a while, Hollyn would take me shopping or to a movie. She was turning into a beautiful young woman. I noticed the changes she was experiencing with her body, and I commented on them. With a knowing smile, Hollyn said, "You’ll be going through all of this too. Wait till you get your period!"

I said, My what?

Hollyn gave me all the gory details, which I’ll spare you for the sake of male readers. I think she delighted in shocking me, but I was glad she shared what she was going through with me. She was preparing me for the future. Yay! Can’t wait! When we shared things, it made us closer, and I loved my sister. I still enjoyed driving her crazy, though!

Back when I was little, I started walking at about two years of age. The delay wasn’t for lack of trying. I saw everyone else doing it, and I wanted to walk too. I tried to imitate people when they did everyday things, such as writing with pens or crayons, holding cups by the handles or using the remote control for the TV. I needed extra training for my fine motor skills to kick in so I could use these things as they were intended. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t learn. It just took me longer, and I had to have things adapted for me.

I did shine when I was in the Special Olympics. It was always fun, and I got medals for participation. We all did. I got honours for first place in some of the races, even though some people thought I moved slowly. I’ve even been called a Weeble! It was great to see how far I could push myself. There were a few times when I saw some other kid far behind me, coming in last, and I figured he or she should get to the finish line with me. I ran back to the person lagging behind and we ran together. I did it to be nice. I didn’t know I was inspiring the crowds watching us compete. Sometimes they were openly crying. I didn’t understand that. I always thought people cried when someone died or got hurt, not in a place where you’re supposed to cheer and holler and have fun.

I was like everyone else who wanted acceptance for who he or she was. But at the same time, I liked being me, even though people saw me as an oddity. I had a good family, and my mom and dad told me that I was beautiful and smart and could do anything I wanted to do.

By no means was I dumb. I could speak words, but I had a noticeable lisp, and even though my tongue sometimes got in the way, I could express happiness, frustration, fear, anger, irritation, disgust and satisfaction. I stammered and stuttered sometimes, and on occasion, I would suddenly stop talking in mid-sentence because my mind couldn’t always keep up with my mouth. But I was pretty high functioning. That’s fancy for saying that I was at a high level of cognitive development.

My face expressed emotion well, so I didn’t always need to speak to get my point across. My lips and protruding tongue didn’t really impede my speech as much as you might think, and once people had been around me enough and I’d been around them enough, we both would be able to understand each other crystal clear. All I needed was a chance to speak.

I loved music. I could sing—maybe not like the popular singers of the day, such as Alanis Morissette or Sinead O’Connor, but it brought me joy, and my grandparents loved when I sang to them. They thought I was special. They hugged me, stroked my blond hair and tweaked my round cheeks.

I loved my teacher, Miss Pall, too. She was supportive and kind, and she was another person in my corner who saw great potential in me. I loved her so much. She was in her twenties and hopeful for the world to be more accepting of people like me. Some did become more accepting, but there were still many others who were afraid of me, as if I might contaminate them—as if a drop of my drool could poison them! They mocked me and laughed at me because I looked funny to them. They judged me by the outside packaging.

My other miscellaneous loves were putting ketchup on everything and going swimming with my sister, and I actually got into my brother’s music a little bit—stuff like Nickelback, Linkin Park and some old Nirvana. I really liked the grunge rock song Smells like Teen Spirit. I had a hard time interpreting the words, but I liked the song anyway, and I liked the word grunge. It made me laugh every time I heard or said it.

I had only two dislikes: (1) sleeping with pillows, because they hurt my neck, and (2) icky boys. I’ve already talked about Davin Machado.

One thing I loved doing that my brother and sister hated was gardening. I loved spending time with my mom in the flower beds in our yard. I always felt close to her but even more so when we were side by side getting our hands dirty, working the soil and tending to the flowers. I normally hated weeding the vegetable garden, but it was okay around all the beautiful flowers. My favourites were the pansies, peonies and roses, but forget the thorns! I learned the hard way that they hurt and make you bleed. To me, flowers could be like people sometimes. There were many varieties, and some of them were kind of thorny too, especially when they were moody. Some flowers could be rejected by others—just like people could be.

Once, when I was about 12 years old, I was helping my mom weed one of the front yard flower beds, and I saw Mrs. Crawford walking slowly by—achingly slowly. She was almost 85 but still spry. She was wearing a simple housedress and a beige cardigan that had seen a lot of seasons, and her hair was grey and sparse. Her face was a road map of her life. Her eyes were a blurry hazel but still had life in them. She sometimes said that she planned to live to be 100. She was expecting it. She was well on her way to getting to that number.

Mrs. Crawford didn’t see me as she shuffled by. She had letters in one hand, so she must have just come back from the mailboxes that were just past our house. Her two-story Victorian house was just across the street from us.

On a whim, I asked my mom if I could give Mrs. Crawford a flower from the bed. She looked as if she could use one to wear on her lapel or to decorate her hair, with the stem resting on her ear. Mom said yes. That would be a nice thing to do.

I plucked a yellow marigold from the soil, with dirt still on the roots, and ran toward the elderly lady before my mom could stop me. I said, Mrs. Crawford! Mrs. Crawford! Want a flower?

The old lady’s face brightened with a toothy smile. Her discoloured teeth didn’t take away from her obvious joy. She said, I’d love one, kiddo. That was her name for me. Suddenly, we saw a black car speeding through the stop sign right by us, and it just kept going like a blur. My mom moved closer to us; she went into protection mode as we all saw the car disappear down Bastille Street. We heard faint sirens in the distance, and they were getting louder with each passing second. Mrs. Crawford said with a chuckle, "Boy, he’s in a hurry! I’m glad I wasn’t walking there, or I’d be plum pudding!"

Mrs. Crawford was appreciative of my little gift as she took and sniffed the marigold, which seemed to be something everybody did with a flower, and that was when the idea came to me. Yes, people with Down’s syndrome get ideas too!

I wanted to give a flower to as many people as possible, just to make their day better.

I asked my mom about it, and she smiled and said, Sounds like a lovely idea. I didn’t think she understood what I was saying.

Mom, I want to give lots of flowers away! Lots!

Oh. She had a look on her face that I’d seen many times before concerning me—she was trying to figure out how she was going to get or accomplish whatever