The Voice of God

By Deborah Gaines

I first told this story at Listen to Your Mother: North Jersey on May 11, 2024.

In September of 1994, when I was 33 years old, I went to temple for the first time since I was a kid. I sat in the last row at the very top of the balcony, surrounded by people in white prayer shawls. Everyone was chanting and swaying like it was a hurricane. I felt embarrassed and out of place.

But I stayed put. Because I needed to pray.

I was there for probably one of the top ten reasons women find religion: I’d missed my period. The home pregnancy test had been negative, but I was over a week late, so I was pretty nervous.

I’d hooked up with a cute artist I met in Central Park, who turned out to have a girlfriend. By mutual agreement, he was no longer in the picture.

Now I needed someone — preferably God, if there was a God — to tell me things were going to be okay.

And to my complete shock, God did.

About halfway through the service, with all the chanting flowing over me like a wave, I felt a surge of euphoria. It was like taking a giant Valium. I suddenly knew, in the core of my being, that I had nothing to worry about.

There actually was a God! And she had spoken! I floated out of the temple on a cloud.

I was still riding high the next morning when I took another pregnancy test, just to be sure. Less than a minute later, two lines appeared.

Are you kidding me? But a second test gave the same result. I was definitely pregnant.

I felt a jolt of fear mixed with rage. So much for trusting my savior. I called Planned Parenthood and made an appointment for the next day.

But God wasn’t done with me yet.

Our second and final run-in took place at the clinic on West 72nd Street. I was waiting for the results of the blood test you need to schedule an abortion.

The room had no windows, just baby blue wallpaper and a framed picture of a sailboat. I was sitting on the examining table, staring at that thing like my life depended on it, with my thighs sticking to the wax paper.

A bored nurse stuck her head through the doorway. “Gaines, right? It’s positive. Do you want prenatal or termination?”

The starkness of that choice struck me like a blow. Keep it or dump it? For a moment I thought I might pass out.

But there was only one real option. I was a single, unemployed writer, living hand to mouth in an apartment I couldn’t afford.

I opened my mouth to say, “Termination.” And a voice that sounded like mine — but definitely wasn’t — said firmly, “Prenatal.”

The nurse looked surprised. “Okay, we’ll refer you to an obstetrician.” I started to protest, but nothing came out. It was like my face had frozen.

I was walking up Broadway before I regained the power of speech. But I didn’t go back. Just like when I was at temple, I had an overwhelming feeling that the universe was working as it should.

My decision wasn’t about politics or religion. I was, and remain, as pro-choice as they come. But my choice on that day was to have a baby. Somehow, I knew in my bones that everything was going to be fine.

Nearly 30 years have passed since that day. I’ve never been able to explain what happened. I’ve certainly never channeled God again.

But my daughter, Lila, was born the following May. From the moment I met her, she filled my life with joy.

So yeah, I guess I have faith now. Or at least, I believe that something larger than me wanted Lila on this earth.

For me, that something was the voice of God.