THE BROCKHOEFT REPORT --------- Feedback Box:
Vol I, No. I March 1993 Federal Prison, Ashland
"The journal for narrow-minded, intolerant,
absolutist antiabortionists - just like you and me. And if anybody else
doesn't like it, that's tough." Joe Bartlett.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Dear Friends,
I really feel bad about this for a couple of reasons. For
one thing I really feel guilty about having neglected for so long to write
back to so many friends in the pro-life movement. The other thing is it's
embarrassing to be sending everyone a cold, impersonal form letter like
this. I have over 200 correspondents, and the problem is I let my need to
reply back up until I owed letters to the vast majority. It's hard for me
to write short letters because I'm a little eccentric, a sort of complicated
man, and I have to explain things. This is especially true in writing to
folks who don't know me very well. I'm a convicted abortion chamber bomber.
See what I mean? You can't just write a letter and say, "I'm a 42 year
old, divorced bomber, and father of five." You have to explain yourself.
So that's what I'm going to begin to do in this first letter. By the way,
from now on I'm going to try to write back handwritten personal letters
to everyone who continues corresponding with me. I'm really going to try
to keep from betting backed up like this time. So don't stop writing. Also,
I've gotten repeated requests to write a book. I really need to write a
book to explain what I've done and why. Most of what appears in this letter
will be excerpted word for word into the book, and has been excerpted from
letters I've already written to a few others, especially Ann Marie, a brand-new
activist who just got started at the Washington DC March For Life in January.
But besides writing back personally to everyone, I'm going to also send
out a form letter like this, maybe quarterly or bimonthly, to all 200 correspondents,
telling a little more of my story. So if you don't particularly care to
write back and forth on a continuous basis but would like to keep getting
the "newsletter," just drop me a card once or twice a year saying
you're interested. If you want to write a longer letter telling me a little
about yourself, fine! But, otherwise, if you can't think of anything else
to say, please don't put off dropping me that card 'cause I'm curious to
know how many other prolifers are interested in hearing more of my account.
All of the newsletters will contain excerpts from the book, so if you'd
rather not buy the book, you'll probably be able to hear my whole story
this way, though it would take a few years to tell, in letters, a few pages
at a time. For those who want the whole thing sooner, the book should be
available before the end of '93. This probably sounds like a commercial,
but it ain't. I'm well aware that "ain't" ain't a word in some
states, but I was born and raised in Kenton County, Kentucky, and my teachers
even said it. It was okie dokie with them as long as the students spelled
correctly. When it got cold out Mom let me wear shoes to school, 'cause
I had to walk three miles, back and forth, through the snow, and it was
uphill both ways....
We don't hardly allow abortions in Kentucky. In a 40,000 square mile state
they're only done in two towns: Louisville and Lexington. Louisville is
where the University of Louisville is and, also, where they run the Kentucky
Derby in the month of May. You wouldn't laugh at Kentucky on that Saturday
in May. The Queen of England comes here. Also U.S. Presidents, movie stars,
senators, Arabian sheiks, kings, even the Shah of Iran. I kid you not. Mom
said she hasn't seen the Shah for a few years, though. The thing is, though,
if a Kentuckian wants to go to an abortion chamber during the day and aggravate
'em from the sidewalk, or go there at night, in a covert operation, under
cover of darkness, with gasoline or explosives and really close that place,
he pretty well has to go to another state. Louisville and Lexington were
both at least a hundred miles from my home, so it was more convenient to
go to Cincinnati, Ohio, only about 15 miles away; or about 10 miles, as
the crow flies, as my pa used to say, God rest his soul.
About the time I'd been an activist a little over a year, there was a demonstration
where I became deeply distressed. On Saturday, Dec. 28, 1985, Melody Green
and a couple other prolife leaders held a demonstration which included over
200 local prolifers on the sidewalk across the street from Planned Parenthood,
and which also spilled across the street to the sidewalk directly in front
of the death chamber. They were crossing the country and stopping in major
cities to motivate people to act against abortion. On their tour they were
carrying with them the bodies of seven slain babies in little caskets. These
were third trimester babies whose mothers had carried them into the seventh
month or longer. They were all intact (not dismembered) because they'd al
been killed by saline burning/poisoning. There they all lay, naked, in their
little caskets. At the times of their deaths, of course, their bodies had
long since been completely developed with perfect little arms, hands, fingers,
feet, toes, facial features and full heads of fine baby hair. Those little
fingers bore prints no one had ever borne before, nor ever shall again.
All of their little eyes were closed in death. As I was saying, all of their
bodies were perfectly formed, including the limbs, but their skin was terrible
to look upon because of how they'd been burned alive by the terrible solution.
The skin was discolored, black, where it had been completely burned off,
in some cases, over 50% of the child's body.
It was a bitterly cold day with the temperature down around 0 F with 30
m.p.h. winds, and I had an urge to cover up their bodies against the terrible
cold even though I knew they were dead and could feel nothing. Still it
was terrible and gut-wrenching to see them lying there like that, naked,
but I forced myself to look at them long to motivate myself to do what I
believed I should do in order to demonstrate that I loved my little neighbor
as myself and would do unto others as I would want others to do for me.
My heart was broken not only from the knowledge that these innocent, helpless,
precious, little babies had been slain for no good reason, but I was also
crushed by imagining the horror and physical agony they had surely experienced
during the long hours that these unspeakable crimes were being committed.
My heart was full, not only of grief, but rage as well. And yet, my fury
was to intensify a little later on that morning.
There were about 60 pro-abortion counter-demonstrators lined up on the edge
of P.P.'s property. At one point seven of our people took the open caskets
across the street and walked slowly along the line of pro-aborts to show
them the results of their evil. When my friends first began to cross the
street I thought to myself: "Most of these creeps are only demonstrators
and have never seen an aborted baby's body, but now they'll clearly recognize
these bodies as dead human beings and won't be able to deceive themselves
into thinking the unborn are mere formless blobs of tissue. Recognizing
this fact and seeing the heartless brutality of the crime will make them
ashamed of their position so that some, surely, at least two or three, will
quit their positions and walk over to our side."
I watched their faces and reactions, and a few, indeed, did seem horrified,
and yet not one of them forsook his position, and some even sneered. I was
further enraged. My heart was overwhelmed with grief and love for the babies,
fury and rage toward the criminals...and...deep shame and embarrassment
before God. I was ashamed of being an American and, especially, an American
man; ashamed of being part of a lukewarm church (by "church" I
mean the sum total of Christendom including the Catholic plus all protestant
denominations and all nondenominational). I was also ashamed of myself for
having done nothing during the first years, and so little thereafter, and
for having put off the doing of what I felt was my duty to my God and my
country, namely, the exertion of actual force to preempt the slaughter of
my people, to protect the lives of American babies.
It was on a Saturday, and I knew the death chamber would be closed the next
day, but on Monday it would reopen. So here was the situation as I saw it
that morning: here you've got these unseen babies, a little blond-headed
boy there, a little black-haired girl over there, and you know, for a fact,
that they're there, even though you can't see them. You know, definitely,
that you're dealing, not with hypotheses, but with real, actual, already
existent, living human beings. And you know they're going to be killed within
48 hours unless you do something effective! Here you've got these little
babies who have waited thousands of years in the heart of God. The Lord
has held them in His Sacred Heart, and known them, and loved them since
the beginning of time, and now, only a few months ago He sent them, incarnate,
into this world for the only chance at life they'll ever have. But an appointment
has been made for them to be killed in less than 48 hours, and they'll never
get another chance! They won't be able to go and get back in line to await
another chance to be conceived; they'll never get another chance, and we'll
never get to hear her sing her song or see the blond-head hit his record-breaking
756th home run! I couldn't understand why no one else could seem quite to
grasp the urgency and level of desperation nor the enormity and magnitude
of the EVIL. "Does anybody see what I see? Does anybody care?"
Besides the tragic loss of life, I couldn't think of the babies alone; I
had to think of God. I'd thought about this before and had considered how
He sees everything with x-ray vision and how, otherwise, on Monday morning,
He'd see right through the mothers' abdominal walls and into their uteri,
and how He'd have to watch as His own little children, whom He had loved
for so long, whom He loved more than I loved, would have their arms torn
out of the sockets with a sickening suction sound and their heads crushed
into pieces small enough to be vacuumed out with the aspiration machine.
I thought about how, while the babies were still alive and going through
the process of mutilation and dismemberment, they would be experiencing
tremendous pain, great physical agony, and unimaginable terror would race
through their hearts and minds, and they would silently cry out: "Ohhhh!"
But then I thought about God, Who would be watching, and Who knows everything
in our hearts and minds, Who knows all the suffering we experience, and
goes through it with you and me and the little baby, about how when the
baby, in agony, cries out, "Ohhhhh!" that God, too, Who loves
them so much, also would cry out, "Ohhhhh!" when He heard the
scream that is silent to our carnal ears but so familiar to His. Even now,
just thinking about it, sitting here and telling you about it, and remembering,
makes me cry. And it's not easy to make me cry. Since the Vietnam War, over
20 years ago, this is only the third time I've cried. The only other two
times were when my father passed away in '82 and my uncle a few years later.
This is the first time I've cried during my (about) five years of imprisonment,
and it feels good. I don't know why I didn't cry the first time I thought
these things.
This might sound odd, insofar as you've probably never heard anyone say
this before, but I felt sorry for God. I hated for Him to have to go through
all that pain with the babies and wanted to keep a little heart-ache from
Him, if possible. Oh, sure, I knew that on Monday thousands of other babies
would be killed in many major cities across the country, so I couldn't save
them all; I'm only one man, and the best I can do is all I can do. But I
thought, well, maybe if I could save even a few lives it might cheer Him
up somewhat. And yet, I thought there might be another factor in the matter
that might cheer Him up a little more. We know that God likes to see zeal
and passion and is little impressed by half-hearted, lukewarm service, so
I wanted to show Him by my actions that I loved Him, passionately, and that
I loved my little neighbors passionately.
And so it seemed that fire bombings of Planned Parenthood and a late-term
pregnancy abortuary about a quarter mile away would be both appropriate
under the circumstances of such extraordinary desperation, and, also, approximately
proportionate to the level of urgency. As I stood on a sidewalk that morning
taking a final look at the bodies of those poor little babies, and listening
to the hateful taunts and jeers from the other side, I knew what I'd be
doing after midnight on Monday morning. I was going to bring those satanic
altars of human sacrifice down before they got a chance to open the doors
and swallow up any more children. I recognized the extremely high, statistical
improbability that any of the other prolifers there on the sidewalk were
thinking all of the things I was; so if I didn't do it the job wouldn't
get done; and baby human beings, created in the image of God, would die
horrible deaths. They would die! They would die!!
My calculation of the unlikelihood of any other prolifer striking proved
to be correct because when I looked at Planned Parenthood's abortion chamber
at 2:35 a.m. on Monday morning the building was not in flames. So I had
to be honest and ask myself: "If not me, who? If not now, when?"
Only a few hours remained until the killers were planning on opening the
doors and performing the highest possible service to Satan.
It is a well-known fact that some people who deliberately and knowingly
worship Satan take jobs in abortion chambers. If we had not made this factual
discover we could safely assume it was so, couldn't we? How could a real
satanist resist an opportunity to participate in human sacrifice with immunity
from prosecution? And we have discovered that to be accepted in some satanic
covens a young woman must submit to the initiation of getting pregnant and
aborting the baby. Maybe the killers in Cincinnati in '85 were not actually
Satan worshippers. Maybe they did not invoke Lucifer's name or chant occult
liturgies during the crime. Would it make much difference on way or the
other? The baby is equally dead, either way. While the child is being killed
he or she will suffer to the same degree, either way. Certainly, if a baby
is slain ceremoniously in an abortuary as a matter of satanic worship this
would make the crime even uglier. But if the crime is committed "merely"
in fulfillment of left-wing ideology would that make it a little more tolerable?
Absolutely not. Even then the level of tolerability is absolutely zero,
and zero equals zero (0=0) any way you look at it.
I didn't mean to run this episode so long and with so much editorialization.
I'll end the story (for the time being) by saying that when Planned Parenthood's
killing squad showed up for "work" they found their facility in
smoldering ruins. They eventually bulldozed the structure and rebuilt, finishing
the new place a couple years later. The late-term target, a quarter mile
away, was only damaged extensively enough to be shut down for six months,
but they had been killing babies who were far enough along to be born within
three months, so I'll let you apply your own arithmetic to that scenario.
I called this first issue a "newsletter" earlier, although it
is apparently becoming primarily an instrument of editorialization, but
in the spirit of reporting let me pass this one, fairly recent, current
event on to you. Although their newsletter, The Rescuer, carries no copyright
notice, in all fairness, I should give credit for the original story to
The Defenders of Life, P.O. Box 320, Drexel Hill, PA 19026.
Well, folks, that's it for this issue. I could've made it much longer (I can think of a thousand things I'm eager to share with you), but I don't want to discourage anyone from reading the whole letter because of it being too long. I feel an urgency to get back to the book, and much writing remains to complete it. If ever you drive through the Blue Grass State go slow and enjoy the scenery, and bear in mind that blue grass music was named after the state, not the state after the music. Be sure to watch out for the kids 'cause we have plenty of 'em. We don't hardly allow abortion here.
Yours-In-Christ,
Johnny Brockhoeft
Chapter 2 (Originally published by Shelley Shannon; reprinted in the Dec/C/93 Prayer & Action News)
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