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I guess that's why I took the Ovral.

Ovral is a pill that prevents a fertilized egg from implanting itself into the womb. It's regularly given to rape victims, quite literally to keep a potential life from taking hold.

My doctor gave me the Ovral, emphasizing the impracticality of raising a child of rape, and bringing up the "just a blob of cells" line more than once. Realizing that a fertilized egg was a human embryo, I refused at first, citing that it was potentially the same as abortion. But a surprising majority of Christian friends and family members sided with the doctor. My pastor. My mother. Steve.

We were all repeatedly reminded that pregnancy was a long shot and that taking the Ovral was just a precaution, just to ease my mind. The case for taking the preventative was capped with reminders that the child would not look like Steve. She would be half African American.

"People will think you cheated!"

"You'll see that man's face in that child every day!"

"Do you want to tell the world you were raped? Because that's what you'll have to do."

I took the Ovral before the 72-hour window had closed. Then I tried to forget about it. Of course, that was impossible with the impending fear of aids and the growing animosity between Steve and me.

And then, to my dismay, we discovered that the Ovral hadn't worked. I was pregnant.

It seemed my world had fallen apart, and the journey to a normal life would take a much longer time than I thought. Perhaps I would never overcome this.

Thank God, I didn't test hiv positive, but my doctor still advised a six-month abstinence from intimacy with Steve, until we were certain that the virus was not lurking in my body. The abstinence didn't bother me at all, since I had no interest in intimacy.

We decided we should let the child be adopted, and spare ourselves all the added strain of trying to love and raise a reminder of the vicious attack. We even began making arrangements with a kind couple in our church who desperately wanted a baby.

God seemed so distant, so cold. Why had he allowed me to be raped in my own home as my babies slept in the next room? And why had he allowed my third child to be conceived in this way, instead of within the sanctity of marriage, as Steve and I had planned? It seemed like a cruel joke.

But God was there. Although sin had its run, God was there. We just had to be reminded that He is not a God of easy fixes.

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