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The foil of the pregnancy-test package crinkled between my fingers. While reading through the directions and glancing at the drawings on the box, I couldn't help but think back to eight years earlier, when I was in college.
My then-steady boyfriend had swept me off my feet. So even though I'd been taught that God's Word set premarital sex aside as sin, I'd engaged in inappropriate intimacy with him, seeking love and affection to fill my emptiness from old childhood wounds.
The fears that accompanied a pregnancy test in those days were immense and real. I always feared it would be positive. And one time, it was.
That day I begged my roommate to buy me three more tests. I was humiliated and terrified. The additional tests confirmed the same: I was pregnant. As I crouched in my dorm's empty bathroom, I secretly hoped that if I never came out, it wouldn't be true. It was a moment of ruthless reality.
A Seeming SolutionMy roommate consoled me. I told no one else. Not my boyfriend, not my Christian parents. This journey was too shameful to share with them. My roommate guaranteed she knew a way out. A harmless way … almost. And the next thing I knew, I was signing in at the nearest abortion clinic just off our college campus. I held a wad of cash in my hand, hurriedly collected from a dwindling savings account from a part-time job.
Three hours later, it was over. I recuperated over Christmas break at my mom's house, half an hour from campus. She thought I was recovering from the flu. As I lay around on the couch, my mind raged against what I'd done. I realized, with startling clarity, that there was nothing harmless about that procedure. It was just a cruel trade-off, one problem—my unwanted pregnancy—for another—the guilt and shame of taking my baby's life.
Grace and GuiltRemorse dogged me in the following years. But from the bottom of the pit, the only place I had to look was up. My choice to have an abortion catapulted me into God's arms. What had always been my father's faith now became my own.
Yet, every time a sermon or conversation mentioned the word abortion, I stared a hole in the ground, sure that those around me would suddenly point their fingers at me. A knife stayed in my heart.
I couldn't comprehend ever making peace with this horror in my past. The Enemy was so good at reminding me of his lies that I never felt safe or close to God or anyone else. While I was passionate about my relationship with Christ, I held back my dark secrets. My past was a constant threat to my spiritual life.
Reaching for HelpOne morning, two years after my abortion, I finally prayed for help. I asked God to lead me to a volunteer organization where I could help others and hopefully escape some of my pain. I had to get my mind off myself. I marched up to the counter at my church and picked up the only brochure that caught my eye. It was for a pregnancy care center. Ouch.
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