I grew between West Virginia, Ohio and Oklahoma.  The first I can remember my dad molesting me is when I was four years old, living in Columbus, Ohio.  It was Christmastime and my mom was with my younger brother who was in the hospital with asthma.  We almost lost him.  I was home alone with my dad, on the basement steps with my back turned, and my dad was touching me inappropriately.  I didn’t like it, but I was afraid. 

My dad was a mean drunk, like the devil was in him.  On one occasion, my dad had me run up and down a hill with a little puppy, then he took that puppy and hung him right in front of me.  On another occasion, he told me he’d put a bunch of kittens in a bag and ran over them with his car.

Whenever my dad wanted to touch me, he was drinking whiskey and I had a feeling of dread come over my shoulders.  I never told anyone, but my mom eventually knew what was happening and she didn’t stop it.  In fact, at times, she was in bed with us when he was abusing me.  I remember it always hurt.

At the age of 11, I lost my virginity to my dad.  Again, I was afraid and confused.  I didn’t even understand what was happening.  My mom was in the room sitting at a table.  When he was done, he walked over to my mom and chastised her, “You let someone else get her before me.”   Then he started to beat on her.

The abuse went on for years, about four or five times a week.  When he would rape me, I would close my eyes, my body would go numb, and I would go somewhere else in my head.  I knew what he did to me was wrong and I felt different from others.  At a young age, I just thought that this must be how daddies love their daughters.  But around the age of 13, I realized that this is not the way things are supposed to be.  I began looking at boys and realized that normal attraction is toward people closer to your own age.  I liked boys my own age, and my dad should have only been attracted to my mom.

From a young age, I had become a loner.  I was a skinny little girl with long hair and sad eyes.  Other children made fun of me and I didn’t want to talk in front of others because I was bullied a lot.  I felt like my dad controlled me, and I felt dirty. 

In 1965, at the age of 14, I told my mom that I missed a period, but she just told me that it was okay and that it would come back.  But I missed it again and I knew that meant I could be pregnant.  That’s when my mom and dad took me a strange house in New Rome, a suburb of Columbus, Ohio.  I thought we were just visiting one of my dad’s friends. 

My mom told me everything would be okay.  I could hear my dad talking to this strange man.  Then my parents left me alone with him.  I was afraid and starting crying.  He took me down into his basement.  I remember he had a cloth with a strange odor that he put over my mouth, and then the next thing I knew, I woke up at home bleeding profusely out of my privates.  My mom had ice in bags that she was putting on me, with towels around me to soak up the blood.  I was confused at first and didn’t know what happened to me.  I didn’t know anything about abortions.  My mom never said a word to me about what was done to me.  Really, we never talked at all -- same thing with my dad.  We didn’t talk.

Within a week or two, he began raping me again, and it went on for another two years until I left home at the age of 16.  I met a man who was 21 years old who wanted to marry me.  My mom helped me to leave so that my dad would finally have sex with her. 

However, after I left home, my dad tried raping my 13 year old sister, but she was able to fight him off with the help of my two younger brothers and my mom, who ended up getting severely beaten by my dad.  Then my sister told a neighbor lady.  Knowing he would finally face arrest, he headed up into the hollers of West Virginia and they couldn’t find him.  My parents eventually divorced.

I felt terrible when I knew that they had fought so hard to protect my sister, but had not protected me.  I talked to my brothers about it, and they just said, “We were kids when this all started.  What we were going to do?”

Looking back, I realize now that my mom and dad had forced an illegal abortion upon me in order to protect him.  They didn’t want me to have a baby and have the truth come out that he was the father. I feel like I missed out on a blessing, even though this was my dad’s baby.  I grieve that I missed out on something.  I know I would have loved my baby.  It’s not the baby’s fault that my dad molested me.

 

My children are my life.  My son was born four days before my 17^th birthday and from the beginning, I loved him completely.  My children come first in my life.  I am totally pro-life.  I took my daughter to the March For Life in Washington, D.C. when she was 14 years old.  Despite what I went through, I think I’d be pro-life regardless because I love babies.

Abortion is the end of a life – someone who is part of you.  It’s much better to carry a child and put him or her up for adoption.  Every child is a blessing from God.  My baby had a soul.  I feel sad and angry at what my mom and dad did to me – it wasn’t their right for me to be raped and it wasn’t their right to take that baby away from me.  One day, that baby will be in my arms.

It makes me upset when I hear people say that it’s necessary to have abortion legal in cases of rape or incest, but you need to think about what abortion does – it ends a life and it protects the perpetrator.  Even if a mom was taking a girl for an abortion, that could be like my mom who was just trying to protect my dad and herself, because she’d been letting him molest me for all of these years.

My mom and dad never apologized for everything they’d done to me.  I had gone nearly a dozen years without seeing him, but when I found out he was dying of cancer, I went to see him because I thought that no one should have to die alone.  I told him, “Dad, I forgive you for what you did to me.  I forgive you, not for you, but for myself.”  He surely heard me, but acted like he didn’t. 

I still struggle.  I have nightmares to this day and I’m still in therapy.  No one should ever have to go through what I went through, and I just hope that my story will help someone with their life – whether you have suffered abuse, whether you are a mom who is concerned about her husband or boyfriend’s behavior, or whether you’ve suffered an abortion.  No one deserves to be harmed.  Everyone should be able to live a peaceful life.

BIO:   A post-abortive survivor of incest, Joyce Ann Born is now a mother of two and a grandmother of six, residing in Ohio, and is now a pro-life blogger for Save The 1.

Dear People Who Bullied My Unborn Child,

I’m going to call it what it was — bullying. You thought you were so smart when

In your mind, he was just an extension of his rapist father, guaranteed to bring nothing but pain and heartache to me and to the world. And I know for sure you were uncomfortable and sometimes even mad about my decision to keep a child conceived in rape. You couldn’t imagine why in the world someone would want a baby you saw as being so worthless and loathsome, and when you realized I loved him, you eventually bullied him the way you’d been bullying me and trying to push me into aborting him.

Just like all bullies, you overlooked all the important things about my son and focused on something that was irrelevant and completely out of his control — his conception. And like all bullied children, he deserves better representation than the words you chose for him.

The reality is that this baby makes people smile everywhere he goes. He’s pretty smiley too! He has brightened the days of the elderly in a nursing home. Tuesday he dressed up like an elf to attend an angel tree party our church puts on for underprivileged kids from the elementary school nearby, and the kids were so excited to see him.

He makes people happy because he is a joyful, radiant light. This is the child you bullied — this sweet, giggly baby. And I’m the mom you tried to bully into aborting him.

Many times during pregnancy, I wondered how the Virgin Mary would’ve fared had she been a single, pregnant teenager in this century. Born into a poor family in the hills of Galilee and betrothed to a humble carpenter, Mary’s life seemed like one that would always remain humble and lackluster. And it was the womb of this poor, unmarried, young lady who God chose to bless with the life of Jesus.

Mary often comforted me during those late nights during my pregnancy when I was awake in bed thinking about the the way you treated my son. I’d think about her faith, the shaming and bullying she must’ve gone through in her own day and age, and that humble birth we celebrate each December. Her own son – our Lord and Savior – was the target of infanticide soon after his birth. We read about this in Matthew: the Magi announced the birth of the real King of the Jews, angering King Herod (the people’s choice), who then attempted to preserve his power by ordering the murder of every baby boy in the vicinity of Bethlehem to make sure Jesus was eliminated.

The Massacre of Innocents, as it is known, is fairly similar to what goes on today with the targeting of babies for abortion. Babies being born to poor, single, and/or teenage mothers are bullied by weak minds, like yours, which can only envision them as inconvenient pulls on already strained systems of government aid. And I can speak from experience about the bullying of children conceived in rape. I watched and listened while you berated my baby boy while he bounced in my womb, his only “offense” being his audacity to continue living.

I wonder if Mary were living in today’s world, would our modern Mary’s friends support her and welcome the Christ child with love? Or would they bully her unborn son the way you bullied mine and pressure her into making him a statistic through abortion, the same way you “encouraged” me?

Based on my experiences with you, I’m sad to say I believe it would be the latter. And if Jesus Christ, having been bullied and targeted for the circumstances of his conception and birth, could be killed before he had the chance to save the world, what other gifts are we all missing out on when women are bullied into aborting the babies who would bring them?

The cures for cancer, HIV/AIDS, and other devastating diseases? The ending of human trafficking, the development of nuclear weaponry, and war? Or, perhaps, all of the above and more.

I don’t know what all the gifts my 2-month-old son has brought with him to the

When I think of my son Caleb’s own story: conceived in rape, bullied, targeted for abortion, born, loved… well, he didn’t come to save the world, but in many ways, he saved me by giving me a reason to continue living after the devastation of rape. You saw the opposite – the fake news you invented to avoid facing the truth, which is that a child conceived in bad circumstances is a child as worthy of life as you.

That’s why you called him horrible names and bullied him before he could even exit the womb. And it’s why you tried your best to convince me that he was an “evil,” unwelcome “spawn of Satan,” rather than a gift of God.

Satan’s only offering here arrived through you in the form of your ignorant statements, and I thank God for the wisdom to have seen that from the beginning, just as I thank him for giving each person inherent worth and value. That includes my son as much as it includes anyone else!

And you... well, know that I forgive you and pray for you. I pray you see your error. I pray you find truth. I pray you get to meet the baby who changed my life in every good way. I pray you let yourself experience God through my child — each and every time he smiles, there’s nothing to feel but the warm love of God.

And I pray you won’t feel compelled to bully another child, regardless of how he or she was conceived. Because whether we’re talking about the real baby Jesus or the baby who plays Jesus in a pageant and an elf at a Christmas party, all babies deserve more than you’ve given my son.

May you do better in 2018. May you build up instead of bullying and tearing down. May you love yourself enough to begin loving others.

Sincerely, 

The elf’s mom

BIO:  Paula K. Peyton is a writer, mother to Caleb and now a pro-life blogger for Save The 1.  She resides in Memphis, TN.

you called my son “a spawn of Satan,” “Satan’s rape baby,” and “evil,” among other things. And you thought you were right to “warn” me of the dangers of bringing him into the world.
world are yet, though it is obvious that joy is one of them. I’m sure that will be more evident than ever when he plays the baby Jesus in the church Christmas pageant on the 24^th.

During my pregnancy, I read stories of other women who had become pregnant by rape, sometimes twice daily.  Those stories were a source of hope and made me feel like I wasn't alone and reaffirmed that it was normal to love my child.  I'm writing my story now in the hope that other woman will know that they are not alone, but I also feel that I owe it to my son to advocate for babies like him.

Six years ago, through some friends who worked there, I took a volunteer position with Planned Parenthood as an outreach HIV tester and counselor, so I was out in the community and really never spent time at the clinic, except for the certification training.  Being in the abortion clinic made me uncomfortable to know that in another room down the hallway there is a baby dying.  I took the position because I wanted to help people know their status with HIV.

At that point in time, I described myself as “personally pro-life, but politically pro-choice.” I never would have encouraged someone to have an abortion, but I realize now that my silence on the issue of life had a real-life impact.  One day, when speaking to a rape victim who came to me for an HIV test and thought she might be pregnant, I was silent.  Years later, I knew I had been complicit in whatever occurred later when she followed up with clinic staff.  I used to think of her occasionally.  I knew what it was like to be raped because I had become a victim at the age of 16.  But I didn’t know what it was like -- as I used to think -- to “carry a rapist around inside of you.” 

Back then, even as someone who was “personally pro-life,” I thought it must be awful to be in such a position:  choose yourself and your sanity, or this child created in horror.  I would think, "How could anyone decide what to do there?"  In my mind, I certainly could understand someone making an appointment for an abortion.  The memory of that woman grieves me now, as I can see my own foolishness clearly.

This mind-clearing began in the summer of 2016 when I, as a single woman, unexpectedly got pregnant.  This reel of unfortunate events began with a guy and a stupid decision and ended with a miscarriage and heartbreak.  Few people in my life know about the baby I lost. I hid her away in my heart and tried to move on with my life, knowing that she was never meant to be.  After all, I have a diagnosed infertility problem.  Pregnancy was something I was supposed to work for and earn with years of doctors visits and prayer – in my mind anyway.  

Losing that baby, for a time, felt like payback for my prior involvement with Planned Parenthood and my ownership of a political position which championed the "right to choose."  

My family helped me have a tiny memorial service for the little girl I carry in my heart, and things started to click for me in my head.  If I believed my child’s life deserved to be memorialized even though she hadn’t taken a breath, didn’t all babies lost in the womb deserve the same?  And if I considered them to be living -- which would mean aborting them was a form of murder -- how could I remain complicit in the murder of babies?  

But what about those women who "NEEDED" to have abortions?  What about the women who shouldn’t be “forced to carry rapists’ babies,” who "definitely needed the procedure?" I had to table my thoughts and just be okay with it for their benefit.  Who better to speak for them than someone who had no idea what she was talking about?  I laugh at my ignorance-based arrogance now.

January 2017 rolled around, and I began my year with hopes of returning to college to finish my four-year degree in the fall.  I would spend the months in between trying to figure out if I wanted to prep for law school or try to pursue seminary education.  Yes, I have a faith background.  I made the decision to be baptized when I was 10, but I had always separated my religious beliefs from my politics.

I was getting to know a new guy who seemed nice enough.  It was going to be a productive year.  Halfway through January, I went out for a couple of drinks with a female friend on a Saturday.  We participated in a fundraiser to support native water rights activists, which involved making a donation to get Standing Rock tattoos.  With my arm covered in plastic wrap to protect the new ink as it began to heal, I stopped by this new guy’s apartment for a short visit.  He did what guys sometimes do – made a move.  My arm was hurting, and after my miscarriage, I had made a decision for purity and just did not want to go through that again.  So I declined his advances making it clear to him I wasn't interested in that and started toward the door to leave.  

I was completely shocked and frozen when his roommate came out from his bedroom with a gun in his hand and got between me and the door.  The guy I'd been with told me, "I don't think you're gonna leave right now."  I was terrified.  I thought, "This is it for me.  My life is going to end."  The whole time I was praying to God that I would live as the two of them raped me at gunpoint that night.  

When it was all over, the guy told me I could leave, and as I walked out, he said "Thanks for a great time."  In that moment, I felt like a huge piece of trash.  As I drove home, I got to the point where I didn't really feel much of anything, like I was merely existing and just numb. 

I went home and showered and showered and showered. I tried to call friends, but couldn't reach anyone and was not about to leave a message.  

At church that morning, I spoke to my priest who was very supportive of me as a rape victim.  But she actually took me to Walgreens to buy Plan B, which I never took because it wasn't something I was comfortable with.  I don't take birth control because I'm not comfortable with it.  I already knew Plan B  could have the effect of preventing implantation if an embryo was already created.  I was worried about STDs, and of course, I was concerned about pregnancy since I knew the timing and that I could be ovulating.  I'd had discussions with friends in the past about Plan B and we had talked about not knowing if you would have lost a baby or not, and I had already concluded that it would be horrible not knowing.

I guess I realized that what happened, happened, and that if I were pregnant, this was MY baby.  I don't know who my own biological father is, so to me, what's the difference?  Your genetic parents are not who define you and I already knew that.

Two weeks later, I found myself back in Walgreens, returning the Plan B, in exchange for pregnancy tests.  I'm sure the cashier was ready to Facebook that hilarious moment! 

“What if I’m pregnant?” I thought over and over.  Twenty minutes later, looking at a positive test in my bathroom, I was able to answer that question:  I was having a baby. . . .  And I was overflowing with joy!

In the days and weeks that followed, I slowly shared my news with my closest friends, and more often than not, they offered me pity-ridden faces and one question asked in a way that seemed as if they thought the answer was obvious: “What are you going to do?” I guess they assumed I’d respond with an appointment time, a clinic name, or some other portion of a carefully-arranged abortion plan.

“I’m choosing joy,” I’d say, and it would be instantly clear that my answer was the furthest thing from the one they were anticipating.  It seemed like everyone thought I was crazy, but nothing about wanting my child seemed strange to me.  They didn’t understand that the moment I had seen that positive pregnancy test, I realized just how faithful God is to us.

I felt so dead inside for the entirety of those two weeks between my victimhood and the discovery of my pending motherhood.  Everything I did in those two weeks seemed like an act of mourning.  Rape is devastating.  It’s the killing of one’s spirit in a deep, physical way. In contrast, pregnancy was such a revolutionary revival!  The Lord had taken one of the worst things in my life -- something so dark and damaging -- and He had created life.  After weeks of that darkness controlling everything I did, there was suddenly a light.

In a plot twist that the "old me" never saw coming, the only choice I -- as a pregnant rape victim -- needed to make was to embrace that light, and I did.  It took about a second and a half for my heart to fill with love for the little one growing underneath it – so much love that my heart couldn’t contain it all and it began spilling everywhere.  I smiled for the first time in two weeks, and I couldn’t stop.

Then the bleeding started. . . .

I was about 4.5 weeks pregnant and went to the bathroom at a friend’s birthday party only to discover blood.  My heart sank.  Was I having another miscarriage?  The bleeding wasn’t heavy.  I wasn’t cramping.  A quick google search from the bathroom led me to a hopeful place: sometimes this can happen and it’s not the end.  As the bleeding continued, I did a lot of praying while I waited for the day of my first ultrasound appointment to arrive.  At 6 weeks and 5 days, my little one had a heartbeat and my smile returned.

My gynecologist referred me to an obstetrician, and a week later I had another ultrasound at her office.  The bleeding had gotten heavier between the two appointments, but the baby was still okay.  My new OB told me that bleeding happens sometimes in the first trimester.  It’s not normal, but also not uncommon.  She said I shouldn’t worry unless it got heavier.  It did, time and time again.

Each time followed the same pattern: the discovery of extra heavy bleeding, tears, a call to the doctor, instructions to come in or (when outside of business hours) to go to the ER for an ultrasound -- a wait that was always too long, then a strong heartbeat, and a tearful prayer of thanksgiving.

I prayed every day for months that my child would survive.  All the while, I slowly informed a selection of people about my pregnancy.  One minute, I’d be begging God to protect my unborn child from death in the womb.  The next, I’d receive that question (“What are you going to do?”), followed soon after by the unwelcome advice to get an abortion "before it's too late."  Sometimes they’d offer to pay for it, as if finances could be the only reason I wasn’t killing my child.  The comments grew worse as the time passed:

“So you’re just going to give birth to the spawn of Satan? Abort it.”

“That thing is evil.”

“You should get rid of the devil baby.”

There are so many more, all permanently imprinted on my mind.  I cut quite a few people out of my life completely.  I had encountered enough pain during and immediately after my rape.  The pain of hearing their comments, some made even as late as 26 weeks (long after I was calling my son by his name), was too much to bear.  Having people tell me that my baby should be killed and comparing him to Satan was easily a thousand times worse than being raped.  My son had done nothing wrong!  How could he have?  He hadn’t even had the chance to draw a breath of air into his lungs!

Around the time I was 16-1/2 weeks, my OB had become more concerned about the constant bleeding since it could no longer be blamed on first trimester weirdness.  She did more tests and discovered that I had a particular sexually transmitted infection I contracted during the rape which hadn’t been covered by the preventative treatments I received in the days following the assault.  It had caused my cervix to become incredibly irritated and inflamed, and left untreated, it could lead to preterm labor and the death of a baby too small to survive outside the womb.  

The diagnosis took about a week, but the subsequent treatment didn’t quite rid my body of the infection.  It came roaring back, and the bleeding didn’t stop for good until a couple of days before I was 20 weeks pregnant, after two more rounds of pills.  Peace was short-lived because, at 20 weeks to the day, I got a stomach virus which landed me in the hospital for severe dehydration. Yet, somehow, my son's strong heartbeat prevailed.

Through all the terrifying moments, I was almost completely alone because too many people just didn’t understand how I could let this child continue to live, grow, and bounce around in my belly.  Pregnancy is hard, but it’s definitely harder when your friends listen to the culture surrounding us and don’t value life.

My son's movements got stronger, and I began to feel hiccups and turns.  Before long, I was 39 weeks and checking in to be induced at the hospital.  I didn’t accept offers for an epidural.  The nurses kept telling me I was “such a rockstar” for dealing with Pitocin contractions without pain medication.  

The truth is, no contraction is ever as painful as the experience of people telling me how much they hated my perfect and innocent son before he was born.  They thought I’d see my rapist in my son.  I didn't and I don’t. (He actually looks exactly like I did at his age.)  They thought I wouldn’t be able to love him.  I absolutely do! They thought temporary financial hardship was too much to handle.  It isn’t.  They thought he’d be born evil.  No baby has ever given a mama as much joy as he has brought into my life.

Every single one of these reasons is one that was used to justify targeting and killing him because people see him as having originated differently than others.  My son was conceived in rape, but his life -- like that of every other human being -- began with God.  And like any other baby, people fall in love with him easily -- including some of the people who offered to pay a doctor to kill him.  He shows people how wrong they were every single day.  

That list includes his mama because I once thought the same way.

My son, Caleb Ehren Matthew, whose name means whole-hearted, honorable gift of God, is sun-shiny days and magic wands and a deep breath of mountain air.  He is joy after and in the midst of mourning.  He is light -- so much light.

I recently read this quote often misattributed to Plato but of unknown authorship: “We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.”

That’s the one thing I pray Caleb’s life can teach others:  there’s no reason to fear the blessing of light, even and especially when it comes in the form of a child.

BIO:  Paula K. Peyton is a writer, mother to Caleb and now a pro-life blogger for Save The 1.  She resides in Memphis, TN.

Last Monday, I received a call from the District Attorney’s office stating they did not have enough evidence to file criminal charges of any kind against my rapist.  I literally collapsed on the floor upon hearing the news.  The wind was knocked right out of me.  That wasn’t enough, however.  The story of my rape, pregnancy, and birth of my child made a lot of local news headlines because of my demands for justice, so when the DA made the nine page memo describing why he wouldn’t pursue any criminal charges against my rapist public, the media had a field day.  Within a couple hours, my face was once again splashed all across the television and social media.

            The reaction on social media was nothing short of disgusting and devastating.  Sure, I had support from friends and family, even from strangers who have been following my story, but the nasty comments were hard to ignore. 

I read things like:

“Your credibility went out the window when we found out you had a bunch of different kids with a bunch of different fathers.”

            “You’re a known drunken whore.”

            “You are a liar.”

            “You belong in jail.”

But the worst was:

 “I feel sorry for that poor baby.  I hope the father will finally get to see his baby.”

Immediately, I began to pray.  I pleaded that God would protect my child.  In the state of Wyoming, telling your rapist “No” is not enough to prosecute a rape.  In Wyoming, being incoherent, drunk, or drugged is not enough for a rape conviction.  Further, a rapist has total access and ability to exercise his parental rights to his child conceived in rape without a conviction. In other words, it's open season on women.

My mind wandered to a dark place.  I thought about the fact that, had I just snuck out of town and had an abortion, no one would’ve ever known about the rape.  My rapist wouldn’t be able to fight for custodial or visitation rights.  No one would be calling me a liar or a whore.

I wanted to slap myself.  I sobbed and looked down at my beautiful little girl and I thanked God for her.  I am so thankful God protected her, and I didn’t kill my precious and innocent baby with an abortion.  How dare I let my mind even consider such horrible thoughts, just because of the cruelty of others.  I refocused and praised God.

Having my beautiful daughter, finding my voice, giving hope and inspiration to other women who have been victims of sexual assault, and advocating for victims' rights was worth whatever public backlash I was receiving via social media and within my community.  I was being labeled a liar and a whore.  I was being told I made the entire thing up just so a "potentially loving father" wouldn’t get to see his baby -- never mind the fact that he never sought to see her.  So despite all of my public advocacy for my rights, for rape victims and victims' rights, I learned I have a long road ahead of me with the news of the DA not being willing to file charges.

My fight is just beginning.  I am so thankful for the people who continue to support me and who continue to stand beside me.  I am proud of the choice I made to keep and parent my baby conceived in rape.  I will continue to fight tooth and nail to ensure my rapist cannot exercise parental rights to her.  With the help of social justice advocates and local legislators, I hope to achieve legislation that will actually protect babies like mine. 

If a woman is brave enough to report her rape, give birth to a child conceived in rape, and speak out against a flawed legal system, the last thing she should ever have to worry about is her rapist having access to her child.  No wonder so many women are forced into silence and feel as if they are forced to abort.  What a nightmare to be faced with the potentiality of having to co-parent with a rapist!

I am so thankful for the legislators who have reached out to me and offered support to pass a bill in the state of Wyoming which will include language to prevent rapists (even without a conviction) parental access to the child conceived in rape -- The Rape Survivor Child Custody Act.  I hope other legislators will see our laws are flawed.  Rape is almost impossible to get an arrest, let alone to convict in my state.  Loving mothers who become pregnant by rape shouldn’t be further victimized by being forced to subject their innocent children to rapists.  Our laws need to be fixed.  Rapes need to be easier to prosecute; police need to be given all the tools to investigate a rape swiftly; and children conceived in rape need protection from their mother’s rapist.

Please keep my family and my beautiful baby in your prayers.  I declare God will protect my child -- a precious blessing He bestowed upon me. 

Thank God for protecting her and loving her.  I pray He continues to do so.

BIO:  Aimee Kidd is a mother of 6, self-employed, in Casper, Wyoming, and is a pro-

New Year's Eve 1991, I was invited to go bowling with a small group of people
who I hadn’t known for very long and didn’t know very well at all.  We bowled and we drank, but I don’t remember much more.  I don’t remember leaving the bowling alley, but I remember seeing headlights on our way somewhere.  

I have no idea how I got into a hotel room.  I only remember opening my eyes and knowing that someone was on top of me.  It took me a minute to comprehend what was happening.  I felt dazed.  Once I realized the situation I was in, my mind was screaming for me to push him off, but my body wouldn’t do what I wanted it to.  I had no strength.  None.  I was dead weight.  I am certain I was drugged.  I looked at my hands laying by my sides and kept saying to myself, “Lift your hands; push him off!!”  I stared at my hands waiting for them to do what I was telling them to, but they never did and I passed back out.

After waking up naked, confused, cold and terrified, I found my way home.  I didn’t leave my house much.  That went on for weeks.  I didn’t tell anyone what happened.  I felt depressed and dirty, and I wasn’t getting out of bed very often.  Then, about the time I was beginning to come out of the “fog” of the incident, I began getting sick -- every morning.

I looked in the phone book and found a place that specializes in “crisis pregnancies.”  I called and made an appointment.  February 14, 1991 -- Valentine’s Day.  I pee'd in a cup and waited for the results that I already knew the answer to.  The lady came to the waiting area and took me back into a room to give me my results where several counselors were waiting.  They told me I was pregnant and had a video for me to watch.  I watched.  I watched the life cycle of the baby in my tummy.  I learned about the heart developing.  This baby already has a heartbeat.  As I left the building, that’s what I couldn’t get out of my head:  a heartbeat.

I drove away from there a very scared 18 year old and felt I had to tell someone.  I chose my sister.  When I arrived, she looked so beautiful in a red formal dress, busy blowing up balloons, preparing for her engagement party to her future husband.  It was just me and her in the room.  “I’m pregnant.”  I wasn’t feeling the excitement, but she had enough for both of us and it gave me hope.  She could feel my despair, but never wavered.  

One by one, I told those close to me about the "incident" and about the pregnancy.  I was blessed to have such a loving and supportive family.  We’ve always been very close.  I’m grateful I was surrounded by their love.  It would carry me through the next eight months of pregnancy, and far beyond.

As I was going to sleep one night, I began praying to God.  My Dad was a minister.  My parents were missionaries when I was much younger and I had been raised in church my entire life.  As I lay there, I told God my hurt and my fear.  I told him that I choose life for this baby and we’re in His hands. 

I opened my eyes the next morning and took a minute staring at the ceiling.  During the night I had a vivid dream.  I dreamt that I had a healthy, red-headed, beautiful baby girl.  I thought to myself, “red-headed?”

On October 12, 1991, the contractions began.  I called my brother who wasn’t very far away.  After placing trash bags on all the seats, he let me in the car.  Away we went.  My mom soon arrived at the hospital with us.  Now it was just me and her, and the Doctor in the room, and things were getting real.  

Twelve hours had past and finally Kayla Ann was here.  My mom held her briefly, counted her fingers and toes and then handed me my healthy, red-headed, beautiful baby girl -- just like in my dream, only better.

“Before I formed you in your mother’s womb, I knew you.” Jeremiah 1:5

Kayla Ann got married a few years ago.  She asked me to walk her down the

aisle.  As we walked together, my mind was like a movie reel of memories.  I captured those memories in a poem for her:

It’s a girl, I heard them say and the journey began that autumn day.

God decided that it’s you and me, by each other’s side we will always be.

One years old! You’re walking! Starting school, you won’t stop talking…

Caught another fish, made a dandelion wish. Honor rolls, field trips, laughter and tears,

Sweet sixteen…..now you’re grown….. I’d do it all over again.

Gorgeous eyes and confidence, you’ve persuaded hard hearts to buy into this.

My bond with you, nothing compares, they have no idea, they’ve never been there.

Don’t walk, Stomp your own path! Do your thing and never look back.

My heart explodes with gratitude that I was given this gift to be paired with you.

You are love, you are laughter, you are my Happy Ever After. 

There was always a voice in my head telling me that I could have an abortion and it would fix everything.  The truth is, choosing life fixed everything.  I’m thankful every day that I didn’t buy into the lie.  My daughter and the two incredible grandsons that she’s given me fixed everything. They have turned my sorrow into joy.

  

“I will comfort them. I will give them joy in place of their sorrow.” Jeremiah 31:13

BIO: Paula Love is the happy mother of two and a very proud “Mimi” to two
incredible grandsons.  In the quiet mountains of Montana she spends her time with her family, tending her garden and gathering chicken eggs! She left the big city life 16 years ago and never plans to go back.  Paula is also a pro-life blogger for Save The 1.