While I am a pro-life woman, I am also a woman who is concerned

Host: The night was calm, wrapped in the amber glow of an old library’s flickering lamps. Rain whispered against the high arched windows, tracing silver veins across the glass. Rows of books — ancient, worn, breathing dust and memory — stood like silent witnesses to centuries of human contradiction.

At the long oak table in the center, Jack sat, his hands folded, his grey eyes fixed on the faint steam rising from a forgotten cup of tea. The lamplight carved sharp lines across his face — the face of a man who carried too many arguments inside him.

Jeeny stood near the window, the soft rhythm of rain reflected in her eyes. Her hair, black as midnight, caught the glow of the lamp each time she turned. She held a small book open in her hand, the spine cracked with reverence.

Host: There was something sacred about that moment — a quiet room, two minds suspended between conviction and compassion.

Jeeny: “Abby Johnson once said, ‘While I am a pro-life woman, I am also a woman who is concerned about rights for the disabled, maternity leave, the death penalty, health care, domestic violence, breastfeeding rights, etc.’”

Jack: “So she’s trying to reconcile the irreconcilable. Life before birth and life after it — both demanding loyalty, both at odds.”

Jeeny: “Not at odds, Jack. Intertwined. She’s saying life isn’t a slogan — it’s a continuum. You can’t call yourself pro-life if you only care about it before it breathes.”

Jack: “And yet, that’s what most people do. They choose the part of morality that fits their politics. They fight for embryos but abandon the born. Or they defend choice but ignore consequence. Everyone wants to be righteous — no one wants to be consistent.”

Host: The rain deepened, heavy and rhythmic, like the steady pulse of conscience itself. Jeeny turned from the window, her eyes fierce now, her voice soft but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Consistency doesn’t mean simplicity. You can stand for life and still see the nuance in suffering. Abby’s right — you can be pro-life and still fight for healthcare, for dignity, for choice within care. It’s not hypocrisy. It’s humanity.”

Jack: “Humanity is messy, Jeeny. That’s the problem. You can’t legislate compassion. You can’t put love into a policy.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point of any law if it doesn’t protect the vulnerable?”

Jack: “The point of law is order, not virtue. Law keeps chaos contained — morality tries to erase it. The two aren’t the same.”

Jeeny: “But without morality, order is just control.”

Host: The lamp flame flickered as though stirred by their tension. Jack leaned forward, his shadow falling long across the table, while Jeeny stepped closer, her hand brushing over the rough wood, grounding herself in its solidity.

Jack: “You talk as if every moral stance can coexist. But you can’t save every life and still protect every freedom. Sometimes choice and sanctity are enemies.”

Jeeny: “Only if you see them that way. Abby doesn’t. She sees the bridge — that being pro-life isn’t about policing women, it’s about valuing the whole spectrum of existence. It’s not control; it’s compassion extended in every direction.”

Jack: “That’s idealistic. You can’t build policy on poetry. Governments don’t work on empathy; they work on compromise. For every right you defend, another one bends.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe bending is better than breaking. Maybe compromise is the only way to preserve conscience in a divided world.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked, each second landing like a drop of rain — slow, deliberate, heavy.

Jack: “You sound like you believe the system can still be moral.”

Jeeny: “It can be — if we remember that morality isn’t owned by one side. When she says she’s pro-life, she’s not talking about party lines. She’s talking about protecting all forms of life — the unborn, the poor, the disabled, the condemned.”

Jack: “So she’s against the death penalty too?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because consistency demands it. How can we preach that all life is sacred, then sanction its ending as punishment?”

Jack: “Justice demands consequence. Without it, morality loses meaning.”

Jeeny: “Justice without mercy becomes cruelty. Mercy without justice becomes chaos. We need both — like air and fire.”

Host: The light trembled across their faces — her warmth meeting his sharpness, her conviction softening his skepticism. Outside, the storm began to wane, as if listening.

Jack: “You really believe compassion can hold the contradictions together? That we can defend both freedom and sanctity?”

Jeeny: “We have to. Otherwise, every argument becomes a weapon. Look at history — every ideology that forgot empathy, from Rome to regimes, collapsed under its own logic.”

Jack: “And yet empathy alone doesn’t feed a nation. It’s a sentiment, not a system.”

Jeeny: “But it inspires systems. The abolition of slavery began with empathy. The women’s movement, child labor reforms, civil rights — all born from someone feeling another’s pain and refusing to look away.”

Jack: “Feeling doesn’t fix economics, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but it defines humanity. What good is a prosperous nation if it forgets how to feel?”

Host: The silence after her words was deep — like a cathedral after prayer. Jack’s eyes dropped to the steaming tea before him, as though he saw in it the reflection of something he couldn’t deny — his own fatigue, perhaps, or the quiet ache of lost conviction.

Jack: “Maybe Abby’s right, then. Maybe morality isn’t a line — maybe it’s a circle. It loops back, connecting causes we thought were separate.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Pro-life shouldn’t end at birth. It should stretch through every breath, every struggle, every injustice. Life doesn’t need categories — it needs care.”

Jack: “But care demands sacrifice. People don’t want to give up comfort for conscience.”

Jeeny: “That’s why true morality always feels inconvenient. It asks for more than we’re willing to give.”

Host: The rain had stopped. A single beam of moonlight broke through the clouded sky, slipping through the window and falling upon the table like a soft benediction. The dust in the light looked almost alive — countless tiny worlds suspended in stillness.

Jack: “You ever wonder, Jeeny, why people fight so violently for causes that claim to protect peace?”

Jeeny: “Because they forget that every cause is just a reflection of their fear — fear of losing control, of being wrong, of seeing the other side as human.”

Jack: “So the only way out is to love what we disagree with?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To understand that conviction without compassion is just another form of arrogance.”

Host: Jeeny closed her book gently, her hands trembling slightly as if holding something sacred. Jack watched her, his earlier sharpness giving way to something softer, quieter — a recognition that truth, perhaps, wasn’t on one side of the debate, but between them.

Jack: “You know, for someone who believes in mercy, you argue like a storm.”

Jeeny: “And for someone who believes in reason, you listen like a saint.”

Host: They both smiled — the kind of smile born from exhaustion and understanding, not victory.

Outside, the sky cleared, revealing the first shy stars. The air carried that fresh, electric scent that follows rain — renewal, possibility, forgiveness.

Host: The lamp flickered one last time, its light softening as though bowing to the night.

Host: In that ancient room, among books written by hands long gone, two souls — one pragmatic, one poetic — reached a fragile harmony:
That the defense of life means nothing without the defense of dignity,
That compassion is the truest logic,
And that every conviction, to stay alive, must learn how to love.