This post was originally published July 2025, when our tiny miracle grandson, Blake, was fighting for his life in the NICU. I reread it tonight and decided it was worthy of a repost! Enjoy!
From the archives:
We’ve been living in a Level 3 NICU for the past twelve days.
Our family has walked through many valleys, but this one feels different.
Every time we walk through those NICU doors, we enter a holy battlefield.
A room full of tiny warriors—many barely the length of a ruler—with tubes and monitors and nurses standing guard around them like angels in scrubs.
Every one of these babies is a miracle in motion, fighting for life with tiny fists.
One of them is ours.
Our grandson was born too soon—29 weeks gestation, but measuring the size of 24 weeks gestation.
A pregnancy condition called preeclampsia silently attacked our beautiful daughter-in-law’s body for weeks without a single symptom.
No warning signs.
No obvious clues.
Just danger quietly building until suddenly it was urgent—life-threatening for both mama and baby.
The answer?
Delivery. Not death.
A C-section, not dismemberment.
And this is where I need to speak plainly.
Abortion activists want to look me in the face and tell me a 24-week baby isn’t really a baby.
That it’s a “parasite,” a “clump of tissue,” a non-feeling, non-human blob that can be discarded without guilt.
Tell that to the mom in pod 4 who delivered 25 week micro-preemie triplets. 30 fingers, 30 toes. Perfectly formed to their most miniature detail.
Tell that to the parents of baby in pod 1 whose baby came too soon due to mom’s recent cancer diagnosis.
Say what you’d like-
But I’ve held truth in my hands.
I’ve seen it cry.
I’ve watched it rest.
I’ve heard it breathe.
I’ve spent hours studying every inch of our grandson’s tiny frame.
Little fingers with fingernails.
Tiny feet with curling toes.
A button nose passed down from grandfather to father, from father to son.
Lips that purse like his mama’s.
A furrowed brow that wrinkles when he’s disturbed.
Eyelids that flicker open now and again, searching the air he wasn’t supposed to breathe yet.
He reacts to pain when they prick his heel for blood sugar.
He arches his back and lets out a newborn cry when they shift him for care.
And when he’s laid against his mother’s chest or held in his father’s strong arms—he calms. He rests.
He knows them.
Tell me again a second trimester baby is not a person.
Tell me again a baby in the womb less than 2lbs in size -doesn’t feel.
Tell me again those tiny lives don’t yet matter.
Because I’ll tell you what I see:
a tiny human—less than two pounds—crafted with intentional design by a holy and perfect God.
The Word of God says,
“For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made…” (Psalm 139:13–14).
The same God who breathes stars into space and calls oceans to their borders knit this child together, cell by cell, breath by breath, purpose by purpose.
Abortion is a scam.
Abortion is murder.
