Twenty-two days after the attack, she was able to fly to our hometown of Cincinnati to recuperate amid a large extended family. In July more than 50 relatives celebrated her birthday with renewed appreciation for each of the candles on the cake.

Bridget stands almost 5-foot-10, and before the attack she weighed about 150. In August, her weight had dropped to 122, and she became thirsty all the time. Her blood sugar shot up. On top of everything else, she was diagnosed with Type I (juvenile) diabetes.

Two doctors said it was brought on by the stress of the attack. Now she pricks her finger several times daily and injects herself with insulin.

Her colostomy was removed, and she began healing physically. She has seen a psychologist weekly to deal with her emotional wounds and her post-traumatic stress.

On August 30, only ten weeks after her attack, her assailant pleaded guilty and stood in District Court in Bell County. DNA tests confirmed that he was my daughter's attacker.

He was sentenced to life and 40 years—and won't be eligible for parole until 2052.

Bridget has received regular counseling, and now so have her parents. She inspires us, her siblings, and others. People say she is so brave, so spiritual. She laughs and says she is "a normal gal, not holier than thou," and yearns for that sometimes elusive "normalcy."

So do we. We're all getting there, we think. But what is normal?

My daughter was determined to return to teaching. Her substitute had the class send "Ms. Kelly" a letter, with questions suggested by the children: "When will we see you? What do you look like? How was your summer?"

As Bridget read the last question, she managed a smile. "I've had better."

Seven weeks into the term, she returned to her school. In the hallways, fellow teachers embraced her.

Her return to teaching was a big part of regaining control of her life and a semblance of normalcy. She says she's not the same as before, and doesn't really want to be.

"What good would all of this fighting have been?" she said, adding that she hopes she is stronger, more compassionate, and more useful to society.

"I want to be a voice for rape survivors," she has told others. "I want to encourage discussion and destroy the secrecy and silence that shrouds this crime."

Recently, she and a friend made an unannounced visit to the field where she was attacked—her first since that awful June night.

They drove past Frank James's house and parked. The field looked different. Construction equipment had graded the previously rough terrain, preparing it for a new subdivision.

My daughter's blood is out there, unseen. Is this accursed ground, where a violent atrocity occurred? Or hallowed ground, where God lifted her up?

Soon families will live there, and children will play and grow.

Bridget returned to this site to conquer any lingering fear, to see for herself that there was nothing there to be afraid of.

She stood and wept quietly.

On a website her brother set up, Bridget wrote that faith, family, and friends had carried her through the trauma. "I know I will always carry with me physical scars that will serve as reminders of what happened to me that night," she said. "With time, I hope to see them as symbols of survival."

My daughter survived a terrifying abduction and rape. She could have died alone in the dark but said that she never felt abandoned by God—that he was there all along, holding her hand.

On the first day of summer, the longest for daylight but the darkest for our family, bullets pierced Bridget's body. But surely not her spirit.