I’m sitting in a generic-looking clinic waiting room. The space is clean. Empty. Quiet. The all-purpose art on the walls matches the neutral-colored couches. A receptionist at the office window, a 30-something brunette clad in scrubs and a sensible cardigan, sits at a desk and appears busy.

It looks like any doctor’s office. Totally normal.

I’m filling out a form. It’s only two pages long and doesn’t ask the usual personal and medical information. One page asks for my name, contact info, date of birth and date of my last period. The other is a disclosure form. It notifies me that the people I’m about to talk to do not have psychological degrees and have not gone to medical school. The volunteers, the form says, should not be considered a substitute for professional counseling. Oh, and the pregnancy test I’m about to take, the form tells me, should not be considered a clinical diagnosis.

. . .

The women talk to her about “living in sin.” They ask her if she believes in God. Yeah, sure, she tells them, she believes in God (and Allah and Buddha and the Master Cleanse). After two-and-a-half hours the nurses ask Maggie if she would like to give her life to Jesus Christ and pray with them. Maggie is blindsided. All she wanted was to know if she was pregnant.

pregnancy counseling, fundamentalism