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Statistics show that 70 percent of women walking into an abortion clinic say they have a church affiliation, and 27 percent attend church once a week. Startling numbers—but perhaps even more so is that one out of six women sitting in our church pews has experienced abortion. Here is one such story.
I became sexually active during my first year of college, after being pursued by a streetwise guy who smooth-talked me with his professions of love. I was a virgin and naive about the pitfalls of sexual activity outside marriage. We just didn't talk about those things in my family.
That guy melted my heart with flattery, and before I knew it, we were intimate. I wasn't a Christian, so I had no standards to guide me. Many of the girls in my dorm were sexually active and flaunted it by allowing their boyfriends to spend the night in their dorm room.
In this environment, without Christ, I didn't stand a chance. I was eighteen, easy prey for a guy who let his carnal desires dictate the course of his day. It wasn't long before I suspected I was pregnant—and scared beyond description.
But by 1976, the door to abortion was wide open. On the advice of my roommate, I went to a local medical clinic off-campus to have a pregnancy test done. Although I'd convinced myself my nausea and fatigue were from the flu, the doctor returned to the office. "You're about eight weeks pregnant," he said. Judging from my startled reaction, he asked, "Are you married?"
"No," I replied, tears streaming down my cheeks. I'll never forget the sad look in his eyes as he told me he was sorry, gave me a schedule for my obstetric appointments, and advised me to see my regular doctor.
The girl who had accompanied me to the doctor was casual about the news. It was evident she viewed this as a minor ripple on the big pond of life. "So, you're pregnant," she said with a shrug. "If you don't want to stay pregnant, get an abortion."
At the time, I didn't even know the meaning of the word abortion. After all, when Roe v. Wade was happening, I was fifteen years old, still untouched by sexual promiscuity. But after asking a few of my more "experienced" college friends, I was inaccurately told abortion was basically the "removal of the pregnancy." No mention of a baby, no mention of murder. They made it sound so simple that I made an appointment with an abortion clinic within a week of the positive pregnancy test. My boyfriend quickly came up with the fee. All I needed was a ride, which one of the girls in the dorm volunteered to provide. In a peculiar sort of way, I became the dorm celebrity, on an adventure many of the other girls hadn't experienced.
I arrived at the clinic, thankful one of my college friends had come along with me. When they called my name, I felt relief mixed with dread. I was glad to get out of the gloomy waiting room, but I was in no hurry to begin the abortion procedure. A "counselor" led me down a narrow hall of rooms filled with other women sitting on one side of a desk talking to the somber-faced girls on the other side. During the next several minutes, she described the abortion procedure, referring to my unborn child as "the product of conception," and telling me I would experience period-like cramps as the doctor "suctioned out some tissue from the pregnancy."
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