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I was fed by my time working at the center. I met interesting people committed to the Lord, women like Angela who worked as a parole officer and inspired me with her commitment to give half her income to God, and 87-year-old Urma, whose no-nonsense, grandmotherly feel endeared her to many clients. When my cherubic daughter Nika was born, I got free onesies, overalls, and dresses.

Most significantly, I was honored to work directly with pregnant women as a counselor. I relished the joy and responsibility of sharing with women the life-giving story of Jesus' fleshy heart throbbing with unconditional devotion all the way to the Cross, where God's love absorbed all our sin and pain and death, becoming forgiveness for us. Many women knew the facts of Christianity but had never reconciled with God because they didn't believe the Almighty could genuinely cherish and accept them. Others were strayed believers who feared they could never go home.

Dark blond 17-year-old Kara sat down on the floral couch across from me and allowed me to get to know her as we waited for her pregnancy test results and filled out her intake form. Raised by her mother after her father left when she was 11, Kara had always had to fight for everything she had. Grace—the idea of being loved simply because God is love, and not because you've scored a perfect 10.0 in spiritual gymnastics—was alien to her. Kara squirmed and picked her hangnails when I mentioned trusting God. But at the end of our hour together, after we'd discussed fetal development and parenting options, she let me pray for her. When I looked into Kara's worn face, there was a tear from one eye making its way slowly down her cheek.

Despite such profound and plentiful blessings, I noticed an attitude among some staff members that disturbed me. One coworker frequently commented about how pro-abortion people hold and promote their view only because they feel guilty about something in their past and are trying to defend it. I believe this is often true. But I have friends and relatives who support abortion rights and are thoughtful, caring, down-to-earth people without any more complexes than the average American. They are not promoting an idea to appease a guilty conscience. They believe they are helping women and sparing what they view as merely potential children from real suffering.

My little Nika was born with six fingers on each hand. People are uncomfortable asking about it, but most lighten up when they see her father, Ron, and me joke easily about her extra digits. When Nika does something cool, our faces br /ighten and we say, "Yeah! Gimme six!" And everyone br /eaks up laughing, including Nika. We've been told she'll get made fun of, so we're considering having a nice plastic surgeon cut these extras off.

One day Ron and I consulted a doctor about this, and on our way from the medical village, we drove by a Planned Parenthood clinic. I felt a pit of grief in my stomach for the loss of life within the cheery exterior walls of its building, and with it a temptation to demonize the people who participate in these death acts. Then I recalled the hushed judgments of my peers from bioethics class. I prayed and was shown through a window in my heart the humanity of the workers and women who frequented the clinic. They are people just like me. People who pee and watch TV, people with parents and coworkers, stories and pain, thoughts and dreams.

Suddenly Ron said, out of the blue, "Hey, let's go in there and talk to them."

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November 2004, Vol. 48, No. 11