A stranger raped me in my home. I was asleep in my bed when he attacked me at knife point; and, to control me, he threatened the lives of my two children who were in the next room. Rape is as ugly as it sounds, and not a story anyone should tell.

I did tell, even though the man threatened to come back and kill me if I did. After he left me trembling and terrified, unsure of whether he was still in the house, I tore off the nylons he had used to restrain me.

The kids were silent, and I didn’t know if it was because they were sleeping or worse, and I had to get to them. I touched their sweet, sleeping faces, and then took the horrible risk of creeping downstairs to find the phone. My husband was at a meeting at church just a few blocks away. “Come home,” I said, crying and shaking when someone put him on the line. “I’ve been raped.” I could hardly say the words, and I can’t imagine how it felt for him to hear them. He rushed home and found me cowering in a corner.

But I had told, and then he told the police, and then we told our loved ones—and the slow process of healing began.

I became pregnant as a result of the rape; after much prayer and struggle, my husband and I chose to welcome the baby into our family. I can see now that God gave me my daughter as a constant reminder of His faithfulness. I have gained so much more than I have lost.

That was over sixteen years ago, and God has brought me to complete healing. Back then I wouldn’t have believed I would one day write a book about my journey from rape to restoration—and that I would be glad to speak about it! I’m no longer ashamed to admit rape is a part of my life. And if my restoration will give hope to even one other person, I’ll tell it one more time.