My church partnered with another church in town to put up white crosses in their yards, as a memorial to the four thousand babies who are aborted every day.

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That was how we left it on Saturday.  There were a few crosses that had fallen down by Sunday morning – deer, wind, and feeble hammer hits accounted for those.

On Sunday night, though, somebody decided they didn’t like the crosses standing up in nice rows – so they drove through the crosses.

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Twice.

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In all, after the police had come and a group of men had set up the crosses, we lost about ten to damage.

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That was a sad picture for me – it reminded me of the broken bodies of aborted babies.  Which reminded me of Jesus dying on the cross, broken under the weight of the sins of the world (including mine).

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The people that did this – they shouldn’t have.

And Jesus dying on the cross?  He shouldn’t have, because He was sinless and perfect.  I’m glad He did.  And though I have to work to remember it sometimes, He died for the people who drove over the crosses.  The difference between those people and me isn’t a matter of kind – we are all sinners – it’s a matter of degree.

And whether they have accepted Jesus as their savior.

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