Memories Someone Will Never Know
My grandson is nine months old. Millions of children never got one breath.
Blake turned nine months this week.
Praise the Lord, he is doing better. He still has his oxygen on. Hopefully that comes off soon.
I sat there last night and watched him.
Nine months of breath behind him. A face that already has expressions. Hands that grab. Eyes that follow voices.
And I thought of all the ones we never got to look at.
There is a song title I keep turning over in my head. Memories Someone Will Never Know.
I have not really heard the song. It is instrumental. I do not know what the writer meant by it.
But that phrase will not let me go.
Memories someone will never know.
Because someone never got to be.
Sixty-something million in this country alone since 1973. That is the number on the page.
Numbers do not bleed.
But every one of them was a Blake.
Every one of them was a face that would have looked back at a grandfather. Hands that would have grabbed. A voice somebody would have learned. A name someone would have called from a back porch at suppertime.
We did not just lose babies.
We lost Sunday dinners.
We lost Christmas mornings. Graduation pictures. Wedding photos in a frame on a hallway wall.
We lost the song they would have written. The book they would have read out loud to their own children. The prayer they would have prayed at their mother’s deathbed.
We lost the inventor who never got to invent. The pastor who never got to preach. The woman who would have raised eight more pastors after him.
Whole tables sit empty in this country and nobody mourns them.
Whole conversations that will never happen.
Whole names that will never be spoken in this world.
Memories someone will never know.
Lo, children are an heritage of the LORD: and the fruit of the womb is his reward.
— Psalm 127:3
An heritage.
Not a problem. Not a setback. Not a financial inconvenience. Not a clump of cells. Not a choice.
An heritage. A reward. Treasure.
We are throwing the treasure in the dumpster and calling it freedom.
And it is not only the clinics.
The clinics are downstream.
Upstream is a whole culture that hates fruit.
Two men together. Two women together. Loud parades. Tax codes rewritten. Schoolbooks rewritten. Cartoon mascots. None of it ever produced a child. None of it ever built a household. It produces death wearing the costume of love.
Pornography. Hour after hour of it. A man pouring out what God meant for a covenant onto a screen, into a tissue, into nothing. Not one child comes out of that. Not one home is built. Not one grandson on oxygen ever shows up at the hospital because Grandpa spent his twenties staring at strangers.
The independent woman who needs no man. The high-value man who needs no woman. Both are sold the same lie. Both end up in the same place. An apartment. A pet. A streaming service. A retirement account. No grandchild to hand the Bible to.
And then the pills. A whole industry built around keeping people numb enough to keep walking through lives they quietly hate. Something to wake up. Something to sleep. Something to feel less. Anything except asking why a generation no longer wants to live.
All of it is the same root.
A whole civilization that has decided life is the problem.
The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.
— John 10:10
The thief is at work.
He does not announce himself.
He shows up wearing a doctor’s coat. A judge’s robe. A rainbow flag. A pharmacy badge. A pop song. A pamphlet about rights. A Tuesday morning appointment slipped between a haircut and lunch.
He steals memories nobody will ever get to have.
In whom the god of this world hath blinded the minds of them which believe not, lest the light of the glorious gospel of Christ, who is the image of God, should shine unto them.
— 2 Corinthians 4:4
The little god of this world is good at his job.
He does not have to convince people that murder is good. He only has to convince them not to look. Not to think. Not to count. Not to picture the face.
As long as it stays a number, the conscience sleeps.
And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it.
— Genesis 1:28
The very first thing God ever told mankind was about life.
Be fruitful. Multiply. Fill the earth.
We built a civilization on the exact opposite. Be sterile. Subtract. Empty the cradles. Cancel the table. Call it progress.
I thought about Blake. The little tube on his face. His little chest going up and down. Nine months old. Still here. Still a mercy.
And I thought about all the grandfathers who never got to do that.
Not because their grandbabies died of disease.
Not because of war.
Not because of famine.
Because somebody decided the inconvenience was bigger than the child.
Memories someone will never know.
A laugh nobody will ever hear. A handwriting nobody will ever read. A wedding nobody will ever attend. A funeral nobody will ever weep through because the child was never allowed to breathe.
That graveyard has no headstones. It is bigger than any cemetery in this country. And it keeps growing every single business day.
I am not writing this to crush the woman in the back row who already did it and cannot undo it.
The blood of Christ is bigger than that grave too. Repent. Come home. He will receive you. He has received worse than you and put them at His own table.
I am writing this for the living.
For the young man scrolling past this on his lunch break. For the young woman who has been told a baby would ruin her life. For the married couple who decided two careers were enough and now wonder why the house feels so quiet.
Have the children. Hold the children. Bury yourself in their needs. Let your name get called from a back porch at suppertime.
Because one day all of this is over. The job ends. The applause dies. The account closes. The house gets cleaned out by people who did not live in it.
But souls remain.
Children remain.
The Word of God put into them remains.
Not your job.
Not your followers.
Not your retirement account.
Faces.
Names.
Memories.
The kind someone actually gets to know.
— Adam
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I am guilty of that Sin. And I didn’t even Know It ! BUT GOD in His infinite mercy caused me to Believe in His Son, the Lord Jesus Christ and I Surrendered All of me to Him and His Forgiveness ‼️💯 Praise Him for His Mercy and Grace, oh you people- PRAISE Him ❣️‼️❤️🩹✝️❤️😻
I made that mistake, I knew better but I let fear drive me to run away. Worse, I then ran away from the Church afraid of the mistake I made. I thought I could not be redeemed. I still don't know, but I am no longer running.