Unborn Baby Quotes

The second item in the liberal creed, after self-righteousness, is unaccountability. Liberals have invented whole college majors--psychology, sociology, women's studies--to prove that nothing is anybody's fault. No one is fond of taking responsibility for his actions, but consider how much you'd have to hate free will to come up with a political platform that advocates killing unborn babies but not convicted murderers. A callous pragmatist might favor abortion and capital punishment. A devout Christian would sanction neither. But it takes years of therapy to arrive at the liberal view.

I’m missing out on a pale yellow shirt today. It’s the color of nursery walls when the unborn baby’s gender is a surprise. It’s the color of my cowardly soul.

I could feel the baby being torn from my insides. It was really painful....Three-quarters of the way through the operation I sat up....In the cylinder I saw the bits and pieces of my little child floating in a pool of blood. I screamed and jumped up off the table....I just couldn't stop throwing up....

The unborn baby lies in a cage we call a womb. He has eyes but cannot use them, and a mouth that he has never eaten with. He has been innately equipped for a world he has not been exposed to. His innate instincts like sucking, seeing, walking, and sitting have never been utilized because no opportunity exists in his present safe and warm cocoon of development. He must be born and enter the world to discover the instincts imbued by his Creator.

Then he was gone, and Prentice was alone in a silence that rang with all his shrill, unspoken words. He was so alone that the only thing to do was lie back on the bed and roll over and draw up his knees like an unborn baby, staring with dry eyes at a cluster of pink flowers on the wallpaper, knowing he had never been so alone in his life.

Right now I am like the unborn baby in the womb, knowing nothing except the comforting warmth of the amniotic fluid in which I swim, the comforting nourishment entering my body from a source I cannot see or understand. My whole being comes from an unseen, unknown nurturer. By that nurturer I am totally loved and protected, and that love is forever. It does not end when I am precipitated out of the safe waters of the womb into the unsafe world. It will. It end when I breathe my last, mortal breath. That love manifested itself joyously in the creation of the universe, became particular for us in Jesus, and will show itself most gloriously in the Second Coming. We need not fear.

In an appalling irony, this moral reasoning has made abortion the leading cause of death for black lives in America. Every year, well in excess of a quarter of a million unborn black children are lost through abortion. In New York City, more black babies are aborted than are born alive. This is justice?

Blue Planet Phenomenon. she’s from the pink planet called Constellation he’s from the dark planet beyond under a constant monitor no love a interplanetary phenomenon he’s an interstellar she’s studying astronomy what they have seen sets in motion their biology they will meet on the blue planet they should know better it’s death if they get together interplanetary love is forbidden their passion keep it hidden they should know better but they must be together to the blue planet love velocity interstellar crossing Earth’s longitudes hiding their love in the new years eve multitudes they should know better their love still not allowed under another planets blanketing cloud Planet Earth in unified love new years eve blue planet phenomenon she will fall pregnant their baby conceived at a time of human unity their unborn baby and united humanity become one in harmony interstellar before they’re discovered too late their love uncovered they should know better it’s death for forbidden love together trial on dark planet they will all die today “kill them now” judgment say they plea for their unborn baby’s mercy a reprieve child leniency only for their baby clemency “bring on the birth” authorities say a unpredicted baby delivery conceived in a time of human unity a love descendant of humanity interstellar love racing interplanetary embracing human love emanating from their newborn baby blanketing pink planet with love blanketing dark planet with love two planets authority depleting two planets a love meeting now love not forbidden love never to be hidden interstellar love plea she and he with their baby to go free By R.M.Romarney.

Twenty years old and this man stood ready to take on the world, all for the sake of our unborn baby.

But I hope for your unborn baby’s sake that he treats them better than he’s treated anyone else in his life. Otherwise, he’ll learn that children aren’t always as forgiving as wives.

Here, she curled up in a tight ball and waited, purred to her unborn babies. And the trees, the tall and kindly trees, watched over her while she slept, slept the whole night through.

What do think about abortion?” “I could feel the tension growing in the plane. I dropped my head, acknowledging that we had very different value systems for our lives. Then I thought of a way to respond to his question. “You’re Jewish, right?” I asked. “Yes,” he said defensively. “I told you I was!” “Do you know how Hitler persuaded the German people to destroy more than six million of your Jewish ancestors?” The man looked at me expectantly, so I continued. ”He convinced them that Jews were not human and then exterminated your people like rats.” I could see that I had his attention, so I went on. “Do you understand how Americans enslaved, tortured, and killed millions of Africans? We dehumanized them so our constitution didn’t apply to them, and then we treated them worse than animals.” “How about the Native Americans?” I pressed. “Do you have any idea how we managed to hunt Indians like wild animals, drive them out of their own land, burn their villages, rape their women, and slaughter their children? Do you have any clue how everyday people turned into cruel murderers?” My Jewish friend was silent, and his eyes were filling with tears as I made my point. “We made people believe that the Native Americans were wild savages, not real human beings, and then we brutalized them without any conviction of wrongdoing! Now do you understand how we have persuaded mothers to kill their own babies? We took the word fetus, which is the Latin word for ‘offspring,’ and redefined it to dehumanize the unborn. We told mothers, ‘That is not really a baby you are carrying in your belly; it is a fetus, tissue that suddenly forms into a human being just seconds before it exits the womb.’ In doing so, we were able to assert that, in the issue of abortion, there is only one person’s human rights to consider, and then we convinced mothers that disposing of fetal tissue (terminating the life of their babies) was a woman’s right. Our constitution no longer protects the unborn because they are not real people. They are just lifeless blobs of tissue.” By now, tears were flowing down his cheeks. I looked right into his eyes and said, “Your people, the Native Americans, and the African Americans should be the greatest defenders of the unborn on the planet. After all, you know what it’s like for society to redefine you so that they can destroy your races. But ironically, your races have the highest abortion rates in this country! Somebody is still trying to exterminate your people, and you don’t even realize it. The names have changed, but the plot remains the same!” Finally he couldn’t handle it anymore. He blurted out, “I have never heard anything like this before. I am hanging out with the wrong people. I have been deceived!

Celebrities are valued merely because they are seen by millions, while unborn babies are unvalued because they haven’t yet been seen by anyone. Our culture has embraced the cliché that out of sight really is out of mind.

Until we are willing to oppose all abortion--ALL ABORTION---then the Christian community will lack the true ethical high ground to oppose ANY ABORTIONS. The minute we concede that there is any ground--even in the so-called case of rape, incest or the health of the mother---to make a decision to self-consciously and deliberately kill a child based on our puny, finite understanding of the facts, and a a cost-benefit analysis based on our pragmatic post-modern vision of utlilitarian ethics, we have conceded everything. We have abandoned biblical law and granted to Planned Parenthood the legitimacy of the core argument they have advanced since Margaret Sanger founded the organization--namely, that some circumstances of pregnancy are sufficiently uncomfortable or troubling that man has the right to play God and declare his own authority to take the life of an innocent, unborn baby.

Besides wanting you to have a healthy child, I want you to be as healthy as possible. The Food for Thought sections at the end of certain chapters describe how the nutrients your unborn baby needs will also benefit your own health, now and for many years to come.

It is not possible to live in a malaria endemic zone without either being sickened by it oneself or without knowing someone who has had it or been hospitalized with it or without personally knowing at least one man, woman or child who has died from it or without knowing at least one woman who has lost her unborn baby from it.

The benefits of good nutrition may be particularly strong for two sets of people who do not decide what they eat: unborn babies and young children. In fact, there may well be an S-shaped relationship between their parent’s income and the eventual income of these children, caused by childhood nutrition. That is because a child who got the proper nutrients in utero or during early childhood will earn more money every year of his or her life: This adds up to large benefits over a lifetime. For example, the study of the long-term effect of deworming children in Kenya, mentioned above, concluded that being dewormed for two years instead of one (and hence being better nourished for two years instead of one) would lead to a lifetime income gain of $3,269 USD PPP. Small differences in investments in childhood nutrition (in Kenya, deworming costs $1.36 USD PPP per year; in India, a packet of iodized salt sells for $0.62 USD PPP; in Indonesia, fortified fish sauce costs $7 USD PPP per year) make a huge difference later on.

Kevin floated a trial idea. To him the protesters at the front gate were the equivalent of the protesters outside abortion clinics. The Rock Hudsons tried to stop people coming here the same way do-gooders tried to block people going to murder their unborn kids. The irony was in how those same rescued babies got adopted by Rock Hudsons. Kevin

By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow," Ivan went on, seeming not to hear his brother's words, "told me about the crimes committed by Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, outrage women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, leave them so till morning, and in the morning they hang them- all sorts of things you can't imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that's a great injustice and insult to the beasts; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children, -too; cutting the unborn child from the mothers womb, and tossing babies up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before their mothers' eyes. Doing it before the mothers' eyes was what gave zest to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading Turks around her. They've planned a diversion: they pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points a pistol four inches from the baby's face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby's face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn't it? By the way, Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say.

To our children. Born and unborn. Tiny humans or fur babies. Without you, there’s no purpose. Thank you for being you and loving us unconditionally.

The thought of these people having the bold idea of leaving their homes to come here and pray pleases and reassures Rabbit, and moves him to close his own eyes and bow his head with a movement so tiny that Ruth won’t notice. Help me, Christ. Forgive me. Take me down the way. Bless Ruth, Janice, Nelson, my mother and father, Mr. and Mrs. Springer, and the unborn baby. Forgive Tothero and all the others. Amen.

After Jesus, the next group of people with the most innocent blood are the millions of unborn babies who were aborted with never even a chance at life, much less the chance to make a choice between good or evil. Leviticus 17:11 says that life is in the blood. And innocent shed blood cries out to God. What kind of cry do you think the blood of 44 million innocent babies aborted in the womb makes? What does that sound like to God?

The unborn child’s great sensitivity to melody might also explain why French babies cry with a rising intonation and German babies with a falling intonation, reflecting the different intonation contours of the two languages.

We'd better go," I say. "It's time for you to make Hmong babies." Toua pulls free from my grasp. "You little--" "Go. Further the great Flower Clan. The mountainous homeland will sing from your victorious loins." "You're disgusting!

And she needed to surf some of the pregnancy websites she'd found when she first realized she was pregnant. Her friends with kids said there was lots of good information available on the sites. But had they meant the slideshow labeled "Poppy seed to pumpkin: how big is your baby? Imagining her unborn child as an ear of corn was odd enough. But would she ever get used to the thought that by the end of this pregnancy, she'd be carrying around something--someone--the size of a small pumpkin?

Doctors are mostly guessing at how drugs affect unborn babies and the women carrying them. This bias isn’t limited to people who have or are planning to get pregnant. Throughout the history of medicine, women have been included in far fewer medical studies, less research and fewer drug trials than men have been. This is true even during studies and drugs for things that solely or mostly affect cis women, like breast and ovarian cancer. It’s absolutely unacceptable. And yet it still continues, to this day.

It was a still day, no wind noise, and she heard something down by the water. She ran to the dock, he wasn’t there, she went out to the end of it and looked down. My brother was under the water, face upturned, eyes open and unconscious, sinking gently; air was coming out of his mouth. It was before I was born but I can remember it as clearly as if I saw it, and perhaps I did see it: I believe that an unborn baby has its eyes open and can look out through the walls of the mother’s stomach, like a frog in a jar.

Yet again I was faced with the most basic truth, the one that I’d learned when my mother died: when the end comes, it’s over. Plain and simple. There’s no turning back the clock, no way to make amends, no way, even, to say goodbye. But I also remembered how my grandmother had said, “Parents exist in children.” Jun-bu existed in our unborn baby, in all our children. I now had to follow my mother-in-law’s advice and draw strength from the things I’d learned, if only to protect this tiny bit of my husband I carried in my belly. I would live because I could not die.

Like every other element of the Christian worldview, however, the recognition that unborn babies are fully human and therefore infinitely valuable belongs within a much larger story, a story in which the most vulnerable are the most important, a story in which no human being is unwanted, a story in which all of us are sexual sinners and only Jesus has the right to judge, a story in which sacrifice for others is the only path to joy, and a story that ends—for those willing to accept the offer—with a marriage of such beauty and intimacy that it makes the best human marriage seem like a heart emoji compared with a Shakespeare sonnet.

Diana” was the first thing out of her mouth. “I’m dying,” the too familiar voice on the other end moaned. I snorted, locking the front door behind me as I held the phone up to my face with my shoulder. “You’re pregnant. You’re not dying.” “But it feels like I am,” the person who rarely ever complained whined. We’d been best friends our entire lives, and I could only count on one hand the number of times I’d heard her grumble about something that wasn’t her family. I’d had the title of being the whiner in our epic love affair that had survived more shit than I was willing to remember right then. I held up a finger when Louie tipped his head toward the kitchen as if asking if I was going to get started on dinner or not. “Well, nobody told you to get pregnant with the Hulk’s baby. What did you expect? He’s probably going to come out the size of a toddler.” The laugh that burst out of her made me laugh too. This fierce feeling of missing her reminded me it had been months since we’d last seen each other. “Shut up.” “You can’t avoid the truth forever.” Her husband was huge. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t expect her unborn baby to be a giant too. “Ugh.” A long sigh came through the receiver in resignation. “I don’t know what I was thinking—” “You weren’t thinking.” She ignored me. “We’re never having another one. I can’t sleep. I have to pee every two minutes. I’m the size of Mars—” “The last time I saw you”—which had been two months ago—“you were the size of Mars. The baby is probably the size of Mars now. I’d probably say you’re about the size of Uranus.” She ignored me again. “Everything makes me cry and I itch. I itch so bad.” “Do I… want to know where you’re itching?” “Nasty. My stomach. Aiden’s been rubbing coconut oil on me every hour he’s here.” I tried to imagine her six-foot-five-inch, Hercules-sized husband doing that to Van, but my imagination wasn’t that great. “Is he doing okay?” I asked, knowing off our past conversations that while he’d been over the moon with her pregnancy, he’d also turned into mother hen supreme. It made me feel better knowing that she wasn’t living in a different state all by herself with no one else for support. Some people in life got lucky and found someone great, the rest of us either took a long time… or not ever. “He’s worried I’m going to fall down the stairs when he isn’t around, and he’s talking about getting a one-story house so that I can put him out of his misery.” “You know you can come stay with us if you want.” She made a noise. “I’m just offering, bitch. If you don’t want to be alone when he starts traveling more for games, you can stay here as long as you need. Louie doesn’t sleep in his room half the time anyway, and we have a one-story house. You could sleep with me if you really wanted to. It’ll be like we’re fourteen all over again.” She sighed. “I would. I really would, but I couldn’t leave Aiden.” And I couldn’t leave the boys for longer than a couple of weeks, but she knew that. Well, she also knew I couldn’t not work for that long, too. “Maybe you can get one of those I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up—” Vanessa let out another loud laugh. “You jerk.” “What? You could.” There was a pause. “I don’t even know why I bother with you half the time.” “Because you love me?” “I don’t know why.” “Tia,” Louie hissed, rubbing his belly like he was seriously starving. “Hey, Lou and Josh are making it seem like they haven’t eaten all day. I’m scared they might start nibbling on my hand soon. Let me feed them, and I’ll call you back, okay?” Van didn’t miss a beat. “Sure, Di. Give them a hug from me and call me back whenever. I’m on the couch, and I’m not going anywhere except the bathroom.” “Okay. I won’t call Parks and Wildlife to let them know there’s a beached whale—” “Goddammit, Diana—” I laughed. “Love you. I’ll call you back. Bye!” “Vanny has a whale?” Lou asked.

Just don't eat all of it," Ram fusses. "It could be tampered with. You should show it to your dad first, he'll know--" "Ram has Seahorse Syndrome," Sahara tells me wisely. "What's that?" I ask. "In seahorses the dad's the one who gets pregnant and has babies. We learned about it in life science class. Ram thinks he's a mother hen. So he must be a seahorse.

By and large, the narrow-minded say that dancing is sacrilege. They think God gave us music—not only the music we make with our voices and instruments but the music underlying all forms of life, and then He forbade our listening to it. Don’t they see that all nature is singing? Everything in this universe moves with a rhythm—the pumping of the heart, the flaps of a bird’s wings, the wind on a stormy night, a blacksmith working iron, or the sounds an unborn baby is surrounded with inside the womb. … Everything partakes, passionately and spontaneously, in one magnificent melody. The dance of the whirling dervishes is a link in that perpetual chain. Just as a drop of seawater carries within it the entire ocean, our dance both reflects and shrouds the secrets of the cosmos.

She grabbed my hand and pressed it firmly against her swollen belly. The sensation of another living being pushing against my hand was eerie. The baby seemed to sense my presence, pushing back against my fingertips. I shared an odd bond of closeness, as the woman I still loved pushed her hand down on my bare knuckles. This unborn child fathered by my closest friend now pressed up from her belly into my palm.

The thing with Jen ended with a pregnancy scare. She had seen my world and didn’t want to bring a baby into it. This led to some violent arguments during which I pointed out, loudly and in sprays of spittle, that if she got an abortion the fucking unborn fucking fetus would likely fucking haunt us—I mean literally haunt our home—until the day we died and possibly beyond. It turned out that was the wrong thing to say.

The predominant thoughts and feelings of a pregnant woman are lodged in some of the major chakras of the unborn baby. They will therefore affect the character of the unborn baby. To produce better babies, it is very important for a pregnant woman to see and hear things that are beautiful, inspiring, and strong. The feelings and thoughts should be harmonious and progressive or positive. Anger, pessimism, hopelessness, injurious words, negative feelings and thoughts should be avoided. It is advisable for a pregnant mother to read books that are inspirational like the biographies of great yogis or great people, books on spiritual teachings, mathematics, sciences, business and languages. All of these will have beneficial effects on the unborn baby and will tend to make the baby not only spiritual, but also sharp-minded and practical.

Everything good that we have comes from God—the rain, the sunshine, our health, our food, cute kittens, super-cute puppies, smiling babies, pure-white driven snow, deep-blue sea filled with tasty fish, cool water to drink, succulent fruit to eat, and fresh air to breathe: “Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning” (Jas. 1:17). However, instead of having a heartfelt thankfulness to God for all these undeserved blessings, this wicked world ignores God’s will, blasphemes His name, kills unborn children, fornicates, commits adultery, glorifies pornography, mocks the Word of God, promotes homosexuality, despises the gospel, and says that evolution gave us all the blessings of life. But the irony is that when tragedy strikes, they intuitively remember God and ask, “What have I done to deserve this?

And she needed to surf some of the pregnancy websites she'd found when she first realized she was pregnant. Her friends with kids said there was lots of good information available on the sites. But had they meant the slideshow labeled "Poppy seed to pumpkin: how big is your baby"? Imagining her unborn child as an ear of corn was odd enough. But would she ever get used to the thought that by the end of this pregnancy, she'd be carrying around something--someone--the size of a small pumpkin?

If you throw in Alviss, and the mist remains, who will you throw in next?” Balin pointed at a tall, burly man in bib-and-brace overalls. A farmer with a touch of the ’Walker. “You? Are you the cause for this? Let’s throw you in too, just to make sure.” He pointed at a woman, fat with a late baby. “Or you. Give the mist two sacrifices. What better offering than an unborn?” The woman wrapped her hands over her belly and took a step away. “Your most innocent and your most loved. That is what Hel wants, isn’t it? Nidhogg wants the tender flesh; let’s toss in your children.

So—there were still four hundred scabs, and it was painful to think of them as scabs because they were just like the others, but they were frightened. They were frightened because they were hungry now, but if they lost their jobs they would be hungrier, and winter was coming. Winter haunted them all because there was only scrub cotton to pick for awhile, maybe a few oranges now and then, maybe not anything. There were colds and flu and pneumonia, and babies being born and unborn, and school, and shoes wearing out. There were old men and women dying, and sometimes the young died before their time. Babies died. Life was just a little thing to them: a shrunken breast, a colorless tent wall in their curious sight, hunger without name and explanation, pain, and the dark. Sometimes in the short winter days, the mothers looked at old magazines and saw ads for milk and pretty blankets and lacy pillows, and insurance for your baby’s education, and sometimes they found articles about how to care for a baby, and they knew why their babies died. They knew anyway. Often they wondered why their babies did not die, how they could survive without all the things necessary to babies in the outside world.

For, suspended in those watery vaults, floated the forms of the nursing mothers of the whales, and those that by their enormous girth seemed shortly to become mothers. The lake, as I have hinted, was to a considerable depth exceedingly transparent; and as human infants while suckling will calmly and fixedly gaze away from the breast, as if leading two different lives at the time; and while yet drawing mortal nourishment, be still spiritually feasting upon some unearthly reminiscence;—even so did the young of these whales seem looking up towards us, but not at us, as if we were but a bit of Gulfweed in their new-born sight. Floating on their sides, the mothers also seemed quietly eyeing us. One of these little infants, that from certain queer tokens seemed hardly a day old, might have measured some fourteen feet in length, and some six feet in girth. He was a little frisky; though as yet his body seemed scarce yet recovered from that irksome position it had so lately occupied in the maternal reticule; where, tail to head, and all ready for the final spring, the unborn whale lies bent like a Tartar's bow. The delicate side-fins, and the palms of his flukes, still freshly retained the plaited crumpled appearance of a baby's ears newly arrived from foreign parts.

At her words, words of forgiveness from Rose, an honest and just woman, something broke inside of Wince. His tears began to flow. Age seemed to drift from his face like misty ghosts from a morning field. Katie lifted his chin and, holding back her own tears, looked into his eyes. "Thank you, Wince." Eve placed her free hand on his shoulder. "May we hold her now?" Wince nodded and gently released the baby into the waiting arms of her sisters. "You did the right thing, Wince." Rose gave Wince a hug. "And you can help us bury her after Wilson and the Tar Ponds City Police see if they can find anybody to lay charges against after all this time.

But far beneath this wondrous world upon the surface, another and still stranger world met our eyes as we gazed over the side. For, suspended in those watery vaults, floated the forms of the nursing mothers of the whales, and those that by their enormous girth seemed shortly to become mothers. The lake, as I have hinted, was to a considerable depth exceedingly transparent; and as human infants while suckling will calmly and fixedly gaze away from the breast, as if leading two different lives at the time; and while yet drawing mortal nourishment, be still spiritually feasting upon some unearthly reminiscence;- even so did the young of these whales seem looking up towards us, but not at us, as if we were but a bit of Gulfweed in their new-born sight. Floating on their sides, the mothers also seemed quietly eyeing us. One of these little infants, that from certain queer tokens seemed hardly a day old, might have measured some fourteen feet in length, and some six feet in girth. He was a little frisky; though as yet his body seemed scarce yet recovered from that irksome position it had so lately occupied in the maternal reticule; where, tail to head, and all ready for the final spring, the unborn whale lies bent like a Tartar’s bow. The delicate side-fins, and the palms of his flukes, still freshly retained the plaited crumpled appearance of a baby’s ears newly arrived from foreign parts.

But there is a dark and deadly side to this fascination with comfort and convenience. Among the developed nations, every 5 seconds the life of an unborn child is snuffed out through abortion.[1] The reason usually given? “We’re just not ready to have a baby now.” Translated into plain English, this means that having the baby would be too inconvenient. If a new human life should happen to get in the way of our career and income goals, school schedules or marriage plans, the first choice is ruthless and simple: kill it. Nothing is allowed to get in the way of feeling good. Abortion is one of the most shocking, yet entirely logical, extensions of this obsession with comfort, convenience and luxury.

Remus,” said Hermione tentatively, “is everything all right . . . you know . . . between you and—” “Everything is fine, thank you,” said Lupin pointedly. Hermione turned pink. There was another pause, an awkward and embarrassed one, and then Lupin said, with an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant, “Tonks is going to have a baby.” “Oh, how wonderful!” squealed Hermione. “Excellent!” said Ron enthusiastically. “Congratulations,” said Harry. Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace, then said, “So . . . do you accept my offer? Will three become four? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would have disapproved, he appointed me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. And I must tell you that I believe that we are facing magic many of us have never encountered or imagined.” Ron and Hermione both looked at Harry. “Just—just to be clear,” he said. “You want to leave Tonks at her parents’ house and come away with us?” “She’ll be perfectly safe there, they’ll look after her,” said Lupin. He spoke with a finality bordering on indifference. “Harry, I’m sure James would have wanted me to stick with you.” “Well,” said Harry slowly, “I’m not. I’m pretty sure my father would have wanted to know why you aren’t sticking with your own kid, actually.” Lupin’s face drained of color. The temperature in the kitchen might have dropped ten degrees. Ron stared around the room as though he had been bidden to memorize it, while Hermione’s eyes swiveled backward and forward from Harry to Lupin. “You don’t understand,” said Lupin at last. “Explain, then,” said Harry. Lupin swallowed. “I—I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better judgment and I have regretted it very much ever since.” “I see,” said Harry, “so you’re just going to dump her and the kid and run off with us?” Lupin sprang to his feet: His chair toppled over backward, and he glared at them so fiercely that Harry saw, for the first time ever, the shadow of the wolf upon his human face. “Don’t you understand what I’ve done to my wife and my unborn child? I should never have married her, I’ve made her an outcast!” Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned. “You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore’s protection at Hogwarts! You don’t know how most of the Wizarding world sees creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! Don’t you see what I’ve done? Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child—the child—” Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he looked quite deranged. “My kind don’t usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it—how can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!

On a Sunday this January, probably of whatever year it is when you read this (at least as long as I’m living), I will probably be preaching somewhere in a church on “Sanctity of Human Life Sunday.” Here’s a confession: I hate it. Don’t get me wrong. I love to preach the Bible. And I love to talk about the image of God and the protection of all human life. I hate this Sunday not because of what we have to say, but that we have to say it at all. The idea of aborting an unborn child or abusing a born child or starving an elderly person or torturing an enemy combatant or screaming at an immigrant family, these ought all to be so self-evidently wrong that a “Sanctity of Human Life Sunday” ought to be as unnecessary as a “Reality of Gravity Sunday.” We shouldn’t have to say that parents shouldn’t abort their children, or their fathers shouldn’t abandon the mothers of their babies, or that no human life is worthless regardless of age, skin color, disability, or economic status. Part of my thinking here is, I hope, a sign of God’s grace, a groaning by the Spirit at this world of abortion clinics and torture chambers (Rom. 8:22–23). But part of it is my own inability to see the spiritual combat zone that the world is, and has been from Eden onward. This dark present reality didn’t begin with the antebellum South or with the modern warfare state, and it certainly didn’t begin with the Roe v. Wade Supreme Court decision. Human dignity is about the kingdom of God, and that means that in every place and every culture human dignity is contested.

Blue Planet Phenomenon. she’s from the pink planet called Constellation he’s from the dark planet beyond under a constant monitor no love a interplanetary phenomenon he’s an interstellar she’s studying astronomy what they have seen sets in motion their biology they will meet on the blue planet they should know better it’s death if they get together interplanetary love is forbidden their passion keep it hidden they should know better but they must be together to the blue planet love velocity interstellar crossing Earth’s longitudes hiding their love in the new years eve multitudes they should know better their love still not allowed under another planets blanketing cloud Planet Earth in unified love new years eve blue planet phenomenon she will fall pregnant their baby conceived at a time of human unity their unborn baby and united humanity become one in harmony interstellar before they’re discovered too late their love uncovered they should know better it’s death for forbidden love together trial on dark planet they will all die today “kill them now” judgment say they plea for their unborn baby’s mercy a reprieve child leniency only for their baby clemency “bring on the birth” authorities say a unpredicted baby delivery conceived in a time of human unity a love descendant of humanity interstellar love racing interplanetary embracing human love emanating from their newborn baby blanketing pink planet with love blanketing dark planet with love two planets authority depleting two planets a love meeting now love not forbidden love never to be hidden interstellar love plea she and he with their baby to go free By R.M. Romarney.

We had planned to spend Christmas morning with my family, and then head over to Phil and Kay’s for Christmas night. The whole family was there, including all the grandkids. Bella, Willie and Korie’s daughter, was the youngest and still an infant. We opened presents, ate dinner, and the whole evening felt surreal. Tomorrow morning I’ll have a baby in this world, I thought. When Jep and I left that night, I said, “I’m gonna go have a baby. See you all later!” For all the worry and concern and tears and prayers we’d spent on our unborn baby, when it came to her birth, she was no trouble at all. I went to the hospital, got prepped for the C-section, and within thirty minutes she was out. Lily was beautiful and healthy. I was overwhelmed with happiness and joy. I felt God had blessed me. He’d created life inside of me--a real, beautiful, breathing little human being--and brought her into this world through me. It was an unbelievable miracle. And the best part? Jep was in the delivery room. Unlike his dad, he wanted to be there, and he shared it all with me. I’ll never forget the sight of Jep decked out in blue scrubs, with the blue head cover, holding his baby girl for the first time. I’ll never forget how she nestled down in the crook of his arm, his hand wrapped up and around, gently holding her. He stared down at her, and I could see a smile behind his white surgical mask. He was already in love--I knew that look. After we admired the baby together, I fell asleep, and Jep took his newborn daughter out to meet the family. He told me later he bawled like a baby. Later, when she went to the hospital nursery, Jep kept going over there to stare at her. I think he was in shock and overwhelmed and excited. Lily had a light creamy complexion and little pink rosebud lips, and she was born December 26, 2002. Despite the rough pregnancy, she was perfect. God answered our prayers, and now we were a family of three. We’d been married just a little over a year.

Harvard University biologist David Haig has spent the last few years systematically debunking the notion that the relationship between a mother and her unborn child is anything like the rose-tinted idyll that one usually finds on the glossy covers of maternity magazines. In fact, it is anything but. Pre-eclampsia, a condition of dangerously high blood pressure in pregnant women, is brutally kick-started by nothing short of a foetal coup d’état. It begins with the placenta invading the maternal bloodstream and initiating what, in anyone’s book, is a ruthless biological heist – an in utero sting operation to draw out vital nutrients. And I’m not just talking about baby Gordon Gekkos here – I’m talking about all of us. The curtain-raiser is well known to obstetricians. The foetus begins by injecting a crucial protein into the mother’s circulation which forces her to drive more blood, and therefore more nourishment, into the relatively low-pressure placenta. It’s a scam, pure and simple, which poses a significant and immediate risk to the mother’s life. ‘The bastard!’ says Andy. ‘Shall we get some olives?’ ‘And it’s by no means the only one,’ I continue. In another embryonic Ponzi scheme, foetal release of placental lactogen counteracts the effect of maternal insulin thereby increasing the mother’s blood sugar level and providing an excess for the foetus’s own benefit. ‘A bowl of the citrus and chilli and a bowl of the sweet pepper and basil,’ Andy says to the waiter. Then he peers at me over the menu. ‘So basically what you’re saying then is this: forget the Gaddafis and the Husseins. When it comes to chemical warfare it’s the unborn child that’s top dog!’ ‘Well they definitely nick stuff that isn’t theirs,’ I say. ‘And they don’t give a damn about the consequences.’ Andy smiles. ‘So in other words they’re psychopaths!’ he says. BABY

One could not imagine a process more open to the elephantine logic of the Bible-smasher than this: that the sun should be created after the sunlight. The conception that lies at the back of the phrase is indeed profoundly antagonistic to much of the modern point of view. To many modern people it would sound like saying that foliage existed before the first leaf ; it would sound like saying that childhood existed before a baby was born. The idea is, as I have said, alien to most modern thought, and like many other ideas which are alien to most modern thought, it is a very subtle and a very sound idea. Whatever be the meaning of the passage in the actual primeval poem, there is a very real metaphysical meaning in the idea that light existed before the sun and stars. It is not barbaric; it is rather Platonic. The idea existed before any of the machinery which made manifest the idea. Justice existed when there was no need of judges, and mercy existed before any man was oppressed. The whole difference between construction and creation is exactly this: that a thing constructed can only be loved after it is constructed; but a thing created is loved before it exists, as the mother can love the unborn child. In creative art the essence of a book exists before the book or before even the details or main features of the book; the author enjoys it and lives in it with a kind of prophetic rapture. He wishes to write a comic story before he has thought of a single comic incident. He desires to write a sad story before he has thought of  anything sad. He knows the atmosphere before he knows anything. There is a low priggish maxim sometimes uttered by men so frivolous as to take humour seriously a maxim that a man should not laugh at his own jokes. But the great artist not only laughs at his own jokes; he laughs at his own jokes before he has made them.

Gregori approached the tiny being cautiously. The extent of the trauma was enormous. The baby was fading as blood gushed from its mother’s body. He could feel its willingness to slide away from the pain and outrage of the assault. He could only hope Shea would stop the bleeding quickly, as he had to concentrate on the child. She was so tiny, almost nonexistent, yet he could feel her pain and her puzzlement. She knew fear before she was born, knew pain, and now held forever the knowledge that life was not safe, even here in her mother’s womb. Gregori murmured softly, reassuringly, to her. He had bathed her in his light once before, and she recognized him now, moved toward him, seeking comfort. Very carefully he attended to the wound in the artery that supplied her with nourishment. Very soon he would give her his own blood, sealing her fate, binding her ever closer to him. There were several tears in the placenta, which he meticulously sealed. She was afraid as his light floated closer, so he provided waves of reassurance and warmth. There was a laceration in her right thigh. It hurt, and blood was seeping into the fluid surrounding her. With the lightest of touches he closed the wound, his touch lingering to calm her. His chant, the low pitch of his voice, echoed in her heart, in her mind, invading her soul. Gregori talked to her as he worked, the purity of his tone beguiling her, soothing her, so that she stayed with Raven rather than simply letting go, fading away with the steady trickle of blood. Gregori could feel the strength in her, the determination. Without a doubt, she was Mikhail and Raven’s daughter. If she chose to go, she would do so, but if she chose to stay, she would fight with every breath left in her body. Gregori made certain she wanted to fight. He whispered to her in his most beguiling voice, promised a fascinating future, lured her with the secrets and beauty of the universe awaiting her. He promised her she would never be left alone; he would be there to guide her, to protect her, to see to her happiness.

The key point is that these patterns, while mostly stable, are not permanent: certain environmental experiences can add or subtract methyls and acetyls, changing those patterns. In effect this etches a memory of what the organism was doing or experiencing into its cells—a crucial first step for any Lamarck-like inheritance. Unfortunately, bad experiences can be etched into cells as easily as good experiences. Intense emotional pain can sometimes flood the mammal brain with neurochemicals that tack methyl groups where they shouldn’t be. Mice that are (however contradictory this sounds) bullied by other mice when they’re pups often have these funny methyl patterns in their brains. As do baby mice (both foster and biological) raised by neglectful mothers, mothers who refuse to lick and cuddle and nurse. These neglected mice fall apart in stressful situations as adults, and their meltdowns can’t be the result of poor genes, since biological and foster children end up equally histrionic. Instead the aberrant methyl patterns were imprinted early on, and as neurons kept dividing and the brain kept growing, these patterns perpetuated themselves. The events of September 11, 2001, might have scarred the brains of unborn humans in similar ways. Some pregnant women in Manhattan developed post-traumatic stress disorder, which can epigenetically activate and deactivate at least a dozen genes, including brain genes. These women, especially the ones affected during the third trimester, ended up having children who felt more anxiety and acute distress than other children when confronted with strange stimuli. Notice that these DNA changes aren’t genetic, because the A-C-G-T string remains the same throughout. But epigenetic changes are de facto mutations; genes might as well not function. And just like mutations, epigenetic changes live on in cells and their descendants. Indeed, each of us accumulates more and more unique epigenetic changes as we age. This explains why the personalities and even physiognomies of identical twins, despite identical DNA, grow more distinct each year. It also means that that detective-story trope of one twin committing a murder and both getting away with it—because DNA tests can’t tell them apart—might not hold up forever. Their epigenomes could condemn them. Of course, all this evidence proves only that body cells can record environmental cues and pass them on to other body cells, a limited form of inheritance. Normally when sperm and egg unite, embryos erase this epigenetic information—allowing you to become you, unencumbered by what your parents did. But other evidence suggests that some epigenetic changes, through mistakes or subterfuge, sometimes get smuggled along to new generations of pups, cubs, chicks, or children—close enough to bona fide Lamarckism to make Cuvier and Darwin grind their molars.

A whole generation of adults has now been educated in public schools where prayer and Bible reading have been declared illegal. A whole generation of adults has watched abortion consume the lives of more than fifty-five million unborn babies in America. A whole generation of adults has watched sexual immorality come out of the closet, become non-criminal, move into being a fashionable special interest group, and is now on the way to becoming a constitutionally protected category demanding all the rights and privileges of marriage, adoption, and other legal benefits and privileges traditionally preserved for God-ordained marriage under the common law (one man/one woman).

An unborn baby's heartbeat is the most beautiful Heavenly Choir in the universe.

Maybe tangled will be a spectacular rump. maybe i will adore it: it could happen. But one thing is for sure: tangled will not be rapunzel. And thats too bad , because rapunzel is an specially layered and relevant fairytale, less about the love between a man and a woman than the misguided attempts of a mother trying to protect her daughter from (what she perceives ) as the worlds evils. The tale, you may recall, begins with a mother-to-bes yearning for the taste of rapunzel, a salad green she spies growing in the garden of the sorceress who happens to live next door. The womans craving becomes so intense , she tells her husband that if he doesn't fetch her some, she and their unborn baby will die. So he steals into the baby's yard, wraps his hands around a plant, and, just as he pulls... she appears in a fury. The two eventually strike a bargain: the mans wife can have as much of the plant as she wants- if she turns over her baby to the witch upon its birth. `i will take care for it like a mother,` the sorceress croons (as if that makes it all right). Then again , who would you rather have as a mom: the woman who would do anything for you or the one who would swap you in a New York minute for a bowl of lettuce? Rapunzel grows up, her hair grows down, and when she is twelve-note that age-Old Mother Gothel , as she calls the witch. leads her into the woods, locking her in a high tower which offers no escape and no entry except by scaling the girls flowing tresses. One day, a prince passes by and , on overhearing Rapunzel singing, falls immediately in love (that makes Rapunzel the inverse of Ariel- she is loved sight unseen because of her voice) . He shinnies up her hair to say hello and , depending on the version you read, they have a chaste little chat or get busy conceiving twins. Either way, when their tryst is discovered, Old Mother Gothel cries, `you wicked child! i thought i had separated you from the world, and yet you deceived me!` There you have it : the Grimm`s warning to parents , centuries before psychologists would come along with their studies and measurements, against undue restriction . Interestingly the prince cant save Rapuzel from her foster mothers wrath. When he sees the witch at the top of the now-severed braids, he jumps back in surprise and is blinded by the bramble that breaks his fall. He wanders the countryside for an unspecified time, living on roots and berries, until he accidentally stumbles upon his love. She weeps into his sightless eyes, restoring his vision , and - voila!- they rescue each other . `Rapunzel` then, wins the prize for the most egalitarian romance, but that its not its only distinction: it is the only well-known tale in which the villain is neither maimed nor killed. No red-hot shoes are welded to the witch`s feet . Her eyes are not pecked out. Her limbs are not lashed to four horses who speed off in different directions. She is not burned at the stake. Why such leniency? perhaps because she is not, in the end, really evil- she simply loves too much. What mother has not, from time to time, felt the urge to protect her daughter by locking her in a tower? Who among us doesn't have a tiny bit of trouble letting our children go? if the hazel branch is the mother i aspire to be, then Old Mother Gothel is my cautionary tale: she reminds us that our role is not to keep the world at bay but to prepare our daughters so they can thrive within it. That involves staying close but not crowding them, standing firm in one`s values while remaining flexible. The path to womanhood is strewn with enchantment , but it also rifle with thickets and thorns and a big bad culture that threatens to consume them even as they consume it. The good news is the choices we make for our toodles can influence how they navigate it as teens. I`m not saying that we can, or will, do everything `right,` only that there is power-magic-in awareness.

There was no such thing in being prepared for Henry’s temper when it blew. Though Loretta was braced for it, she still jumped at the first roar. “You’re what?” “I’m in the family way.” With one suspender up and one down, his shirt partially untucked, and both feet bare, Henry was ill prepared for throwing a tantrum. His face mottled, the spots an alarming shade of purple. Eyes bugging like blue marbles, he croaked, “With that bastard Comanche’s get?” “He isn’t a bastard. I met his father.” Henry worked his mouth like a beached catfish. Leveling a finger at her nose, he hissed, “I don’t told you what I’d do if you threw an Injun brat. I’ll swing it by its heels and bash its brains, that’s what.” Loretta’s stomach twisted into a knot. Fear for her unborn baby made her retreat a step. “Shut up, Henry.” Rachel’s voice was so soft, the words so calmly spoken, that for a moment neither Loretta nor Henry turned to look at her. Then Loretta registered what she had heard. Her aunt stood by the rifle rack. She had the Spencer in her hands; the barrel was pointed at the floor, but she was ready, if her stance was an indication, to throw the butt to her shoulder. “What did you say?” Henry grated. “I said shut up, Henry.” Rachel’s voice was still soft, but the glint in her eyes was fighting mean. “I’ve put up with your cussedness for nigh on nine years. No more. You apologize to Loretta Jane this instant.” “Or you’ll do what?” Rachel lifted a challenging brow. “Well, I reckon you’re too big for me to grab you by the heels and bash your brains. Guess I’ll have to blow them out. Now apologize. I won’t have that kind of talk in my house.

By and large, the narrow-minded say that dancing is sacrilege. They think God gave us music—not only the music we make with our voices and instruments but the music underlying all forms of life, and then He forbade our listening to it. Don’t they see that all nature is singing? Everything in this universe moves with a rhythm—the pumping of the heart, the flaps of a bird’s wings, the wind on a stormy night, a blacksmith working iron, or the sounds an unborn baby is surrounded with inside the womb. . . . Everything partakes, passionately and spontaneously, in one magnificent melody.

Every abortion is discriminatory. Every time an unborn child loses his life in an abortion, it is because something about him has been deemed unworthy. He’s not treated as the equal of the adult who kills him. Perhaps the argument is that he’s too small or underdeveloped to count as a person. Perhaps a worker at an abortion clinic has dismissed him as a “clump of cells.” Perhaps his parents have decided they’re not ready for a baby or that finances are tight; he has to be eliminated because his life is an inconvenience.

Yet many supporters of abortion argue that protecting babies from the violence of abortion is an illegitimate use of government power. They argue that the state may not impose morality on other people, or that it can’t legislate based on “religious” values. They insist that a state that enacts laws protecting unborn babies has somehow exceeded its rightful authority.

Did you know that fourteen days after conception, a fetus can hold a miniature tennis racket?” I said to someone in last night’s signing line. “It can’t return a serve—that comes later—but still, it’s a remarkable achievement.” Next I told someone that at the gestational age of two months, an unborn baby can tune a guitar and braid a lanyard. “Did you know,” I said to a woman named Barbara, “that three weeks after conception, an unborn baby can write a check?” She looked startled. “No one uses checks anymore!” And I said, as if that were the miracle, “I know!

Social media companies are behaving just like the tobacco companies of the 1950s that targeted advertisements to pregnant women, knowing full well the health consequences for unborn babies. And as if that is not harmful enough, these addictive practices create dependence that locks in consumers, whose psychological barriers to switch to competitors leads them to pay higher prices. There is no doubt that addiction-inducing practices need much closer scrutiny and regulation, also merely from an economic view.

Pro-choicers have convinced the public that legalized abortions are an act of mercy toward low-income mothers. They argue that government-funded abortions need to be more accessible to the poor. However, this kind of argument defies all reason, if you really think about it. The whole idea that poverty is an acceptable reason for the murder of unborn babies has had a devastating impact on the African-American community.

The benefits of good nutrition may be particularly strong for two sets of people who do not decide what they eat: unborn babies and young children. In fact, there may well be an S—shaped relationship between their parent’s income and the eventual income of these children, caused by childhood nutrition. That is because a child who got the proper nutrients in utero or during early childhood will earn more money every year of his or her life: This adds up to large benefits over a lifetime.

Despite the chaos, our family had a solid routine. Weekends were spent at the cabin where we enjoyed the quiet. A few times a week, Raven and Lark trained at Big Bob’s. My kids and I cawed for mommy during games. Once a week, we dropped by Cooper’s new house to add to his chaos. At least twice a week, we lived at the bowling alley. All the kids loved the game and River was quite talented like his pop. Our youngest Nevaeh even enjoyed bowling before she was born. Every time we were at the alley, the baby would kick the hell out of Raven. My woman responded by eating nachos. While I never understood the plan behind dosing our unborn kid with cheese, who was I to question her tactics?

TRAGIC RACISM HERETOFORE IGNORED Rich and poor have this in common: The Lord is the Maker of them all. Proverbs 22:2 Planned Parenthood’s founder Margaret Sanger was a racial eugenicist, a proponent of the idea that through birth control, abortion, and sterilization of the “unfit” we could create a “cleaner” human race and enable “the cultivation of the better racial elements.” She actually addressed this with the Ku Klux Klan. Yet far from repudiating Sanger, liberal leaders defend her. Hillary Clinton expresses great admiration for her; Barack Obama praises Planned Parenthood and asks God to bless what they do; the New York Times has mentioned Sanger as a replacement for Andrew Jackson on the twenty-dollar bill. When the media went into hysterics trying to ban the Confederate Battle Flag—while simultaneously ignoring the revelations about Planned Parenthood harvesting the organs of aborted babies, and babies born alive, for profit—I posted a graphic of the rebel flag alongside the Planned Parenthood logo with this question: “Which symbol killed 90,000 black babies last year?” Our government—using your tax dollars—is not to be subsidizing abortion. It’s illegal and immoral. Yet, Planned Parenthood receives more than a million tax dollars out of your pocket every single day. It shouldn’t get a penny. Good news: light now shines on this darkness. The abortionists were caught on tape nibbling lunch and sipping wine while nonchalantly pondering where to spend the profits made from bartering the bodies of innocent babies . . . just another day at the office. I know that it sounds unbelievable, like something from a macabre horror movie script—but the exposé must stir you to action, lest a nation, through complacency, accept the most revolting mission of Margaret Sanger. SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Today, don’t just pray for unborn children. Demand that Congress stop funding abortion mills; elect a pro-life president; support pro-life centers that provide resources to give parents a real choice in this debate—knowing that choosing life is ultimately the beautiful choice.

No amount of dead bodies was going to replace the void in my heart that my unborn baby left.

You know, my queen,” Lutian said thoughtfully, “there is another solution that I see.” She turned to look at Lutian, who was riding just behind them. “And that is?” “All you truly need for proof is Prince Christian’s heraldic emblem. Return home pregnant, with it, and they will have no choice except to accept your word for the baby’s father.” Christian was even more aghast at that proposition than he’d been at Adara’s. “And just who would be the father of her unborn child that she would pass off as mine?” Lutian straightened up in the saddle. “I humbly submit myself to Her Grace’s will to use my meek and virile body in any manner she sees fit.” Adara squelched a laugh at his kind offer. Leave it to Lutian to come up with such a solution. But if looks could kill, Lutian would be severed in twain by Christian’s heated glare. “I beg your pardon, fool?” Adara was almost amused by the anger in Christian’s tone. It would be nice if she could attribute it to jealousy, but she knew better. “Aye,” she said, wanting to nettle her husband even more. “It just might work.” Christian gaped at her. “You would bed the village idiot?” Lutian snorted at that. “Pray tell who is the greater idiot? The man who would see his son king or the one who is holding a beautiful woman in his lap, with full matrimonial rites to her, who refuses her, a throne, and a wealthy kingdom full of people to do his every bidding? I think, in the grand scheme of this, I am by far the wisest man here.” Lutian kicked his horse abreast of theirs and bowed low in his saddle to Adara. “Take me, my queen, and I will give you your heir. I will gladly lay myself down for your pleasure.” Christian’s nostrils flared in warning. “You lay yourself down for her pleasure, fool, and you won’t be getting back up. Ever.” Lutian went pale as he reined his horse away from them…out of Christian’s direct reach. “Very good, then, my prince.” He shifted his gaze to Adara. “My apologies, my queen, but you’re on your own.” “Lutian,” she cried in feigned outrage. “What about my problem?” Her fool took it good-naturedly. “Well, my lady, ’tis your problem. Sorry. I…um…I intend to live a long and fruitful life.” “Fruitful?” Christian asked with a gimlet stare. Lutian twisted up his face as he contemplated his choice of words. “Did I say fruitful? Methinks I spoke too soon. Suddenly I fear I may be impotent. Truly, I can no longer rise to any occasion. I shall be old and fruitless. My fruit is shriveling even as we speak.” -Lutian, Adara, & Christian

Today an educated, civilized society is turning its face while thousands of unborn babies are being killed. God Himself, if not history, will judge this greater holocaust.

THE RISING SPIRIT OF ADOPTION But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.” Ruth 1:16 If we want to fundamentally restore America, we need to ensure that no mother feels that the only response to an unplanned pregnancy is to end the life of her unborn child. There’s a far better answer, and that is adoption and loving foster care. There are many families eager to adopt children, and churches across the country have made adoption a priority. There is no such thing as an unwanted child—we just need to make sure young mothers recognize that there are parents out there willing to help them and to adopt their son or daughter. Someday soon, I believe, abortion will be seen the same way that we view slavery—as a moral evil that America should never have tolerated. The Left always likes to talk about conservatives being on the “wrong side of history.” But a civilized society does not accept the butchering of babies, and there is no way that saving the lives of our littlest sisters and brothers in the womb can be on the “wrong side of history.

Indeed, some cynical liberals have even questioned the sincerity of pro-life advocates as not really being in favor of “life” as an absolute, since they support the death penalty. Other liberals have questioned the morality of pro-life advocates who want to save the lives of some unborn babies (those who would be aborted) and not save the lives of other unborn babies (the great many who die of inadequate pre-and postnatal care). To a liberal, it is both illogical and immoral for someone to want to save the life of an unborn baby whose mother does not want it, but not to want to save the life of a baby whose mother does want it. I

Yet I believe we are in the midst of a new and more evil holocaust, which sees the destruction of 1.5 million unborn babies every year in the United States alone.

Melching is one of 25 mothers featured in Mothers of Innovation, a research report to be launched at a conference in London this week. I began investigating mothers as innovators after meeting women from mothers2mothers, a movement seeking to stop the transmission of the HIV virus to unborn babies. Soon afterwards, I heard about a scheme in which mothers were getting together to improve educational outcomes for children from deprived backgrounds in Turkey, with remarkable results.

I'm telling you: it's the rule book of all rule books when it comes to duck hunting. Unborn babies don't have as much protection in this country!

Charles, what are you saying?" "It doesn't matter what I'm saying, Amy, sweet Jesus, forget I said anything and please —" he plunged his hand into his pocket, found the letter from Juliet, and held it out to her — "please, just read this before any more time passes, I beg of you, please read it and show me that someone in my life still cares for me and that this world has not been turned completely upside down, I beg of you Amy, read it and read it now!" He drew back, trembling, hands pressed against his sightless eyes as he tried to get himself under control.  He felt her hands against his shoulders, heard her soft voice only inches away. "Charles, please, it's all right —" "It's not all right, can you not see?  My army has rejected me, my own brother toys with me in the name of discipline, and here I am in my darkest hour and who is it that I want to reach for, who is it that I want to hold, who is it that I need more than any other person on earth?" "Charles —" "It's you, Amy, can't you see it, can't you feel it, can't you understand that you are the very center of my existence?!  You, not Juliet.  You.  God damn it, I need you." He pushed away from her and bent his head to his balled fist, his mouth twisted in pain and self-loathing for these needs he could not control, these feelings he should never have. "I'm sorry," Amy whispered, reeling with shock at what he'd just confessed.  "I didn't know . . ." "Juliet is the one I should want right now, not you," he was saying, hoarsely.  "It is she who holds my heart, who wears my ring, who carries my unborn baby . . . Oh, God help me, Amy, read the letter.  Read the damned letter now, so that I may be reminded where my heart lies, so that I may be reminded of my promise to the woman who loves me, so that I may be reminded of who I was and who I seek to remain.  Read it so that I may know that she, at least, is still there for me when everyone on whom I thought I could depend, has abandoned me . . ." Amy,

His gaze dropped to her hand, so small and pale by comparison, still tucked in his, then moved to the swell of her belly where her unborn child lay nestled within. A sense of protectiveness rose up inside him, and he prayed as he sat there beside her that all would be well for her, for her baby. For little Andrew too. And he couldn’t deny—no matter how he tried, no matter how he told himself it wasn’t wise—that he wished there was a place for him in her life. Their lives.

We're afloat in amniotic fluid.’ ‘How's that?’ ‘Salt water. It's chemically almost identical with the fluid surrounding an unborn baby.

the only way she could manage. But she had her unborn baby to think about. And she hadn’t come this far only to give up. Plus, her last half dozen suicide attempts hadn’t worked out so well. “Don’t do it,” said a voice, rumbling from the stones at her feet. “Jumping off towers is never the answer.” Psyche stepped back from the edge. “Hello? Is—is that the tower speaking?” “Yes,” said the tower, resonating like a giant stone tuning fork. “I am the tower.” Something about the voice sounded familiar, though…. Psyche’s heart leaped with joy. “Eros? Is that you?” A moment’s pause. “No,” said the voice, now in falsetto. “I don’t know any Eros. Just listen….” The tower cleared its throat (or whatever towers have instead of throats. Stairwells?).

The Poor Souls tell me that they do not go to Heaven, but because they were innocents they do not, of course, go to Purgatory. They go to a place that is in between. One can call it Limbo, but sometimes we call it ‘Children’s Heaven’.  The word Limbo comes from LIMBUS that is the space between the print on a page and the edge of the paper itself.  The souls of babies there do not know that there is something better.  They do not know that they are not in Heaven, and it is our responsibility to lift them up into Heaven.  And that, of course, does not take a lot because they never had a chance to sin. We can do that with a ‘Baptism for the Unborn’ or with a Requiem Mass.  Stillborn and aborted children should also be given a name and accepted into the family.  This enters them into the Book of Life.

Advocates of the truths viewpoint ignore this basic premise. They say that words are not tied to reality while sneakily using words to create perceptions they then treat as real. This can lead to deadly word games. Every act of cruelty and violence against people begins with word games.4 In Rwanda, Hutu leaders demonized Tutsis as “cockroaches” before calling for their extermination. Hundreds of thousands died. Nazis called Jews “vermin” to justify the Holocaust. Today, pro-abortion advocates refer to unborn babies as “products of conception” to minimize their value as human persons. “When words lose their meaning people lose their lives,” warned my late friend Professor Michael Bauman.5

At Sand Creek, we heard it said that they mowed us down with their howitzers. Volunteer militia under Colonel John Chivington came to kill us—we were mostly women, children, and elders. The men were away to hunt. They’d told us to fly the American flag. We flew that and a white flag too. Surrender, the white flag waved. We stood under both flags as they came at us. They did more than kill us. They tore us up. Mutilated us. Broke our fingers to take our rings, cut off our ears to take our silver, scalped us for our hair. We hid in the hollows of tree trunks, buried ourselves in sand by the riverbank. That same sand ran red with blood. They tore unborn babies out of bellies, took what we intended to be, our children before they were children, babies before they were babies, they ripped them out of our bellies. They broke soft baby heads against trees. Then they took our body parts as trophies and displayed them on a stage in downtown Denver. Colonel Chivington danced with dismembered parts of us in his hands, with women’s pubic hair, drunk, he danced, and the crowd gathered there before him was all the worse for cheering and laughing along with him. It was a celebration.

Listening helps you understand yourself as much as those speaking to you. It’s why from the time we are babies, we are more alert to the human voice and exquisitely tuned to its nuances, harmonies, and discordances. Indeed, you begin to listen before you are even born. Fetuses respond to sound at just sixteen weeks’ gestation and, during the last trimester of pregnancy, can clearly distinguish between language and other sounds. An unborn child can be soothed by a friendly voice and startled by an angry outburst.

the caul is born in her or his own water. Babies born in the caul are said to have special powers—to find underground water sources, know how weather will change, when fish will become plentiful. They are said to see spirits because they are of two worlds: the living and the dead, the born and the unborn, the ocean and the earth. They know things.

Tino is the only sick fuck here. He was a thirty-year-old-something, grown ass man, whose wife and unborn baby had just been brutally murdered, and he did what? Groom a twelve-year-old girl until she became old enough to fuck. And even then, he didn’t ask her to marry him. He fucking kidnapped her on her wedding night and raped her. My own fucking father raped my wife.

We vest our hopes in a political agenda because we don't want the risk and discomfort that following Jesus will bring. We don't follow in His footsteps because we don't like the places where He insists on walking. We have vested our citizenship in an America that is gone and will never return, rather than in the priceless and eternal Kingdon of Heaven. We want political change because we want to be left alone to live our lives in comfort without the incursion of any post-Christian, post-modern, neo-pagan nastiness. We like our churches big so our commitment can be small. We prefer boycotts, petitions, and protests over prayer. We fight to save the lives of unborn babies but care little if those babies grow up to die bloody deaths on our streets. (Unless, of course, it happens on our street.)

Holly's voice was filled with exasperation as she continued, "All because of their extremism, I have to suffer—I might go to jail and lose my life.” She shook her head and looked at the baby booties. “It's not fair, Juan. I don't practice their version of Christianity. I love Jesus, always have, and am Pro-life unless the mother's in danger or it’s something like rape. But this, these laws, they get to force me into their weird, cruel version of Christianity---that Jesus himself would hate. I did nothing wrong, yet I mean, who do they think they are? This whole thing should be between the mother and God, not the mother, the government, and God! It’s like our government thinks that they need to play God and be the judge, and push him off his throne.” Her voice grew louder, and Juan walked in and sat on the bed, knowing she needed comfort. Her inner volcano was about to spew. “And by the way, how many children, babies, and unborn babies did God kill in the Old Testament? A lot! So I'm pretty sure he'd be okay with having common sense on the issue of abortion.

Do you see the hypocrisy in the law? If it’s murder for me to kill an unborn baby, then it’s murder for a woman to kill her unborn baby. If it’s murder for me to kill Mr. Kisner, then it should be murder for the State to kill Mr. Kisner. In either situation, the killing doesn’t change – only the executioner. The legality of an action should be determined by the action itself, not by the status or position of the person performing it.

Iwalked home from the office and found Meg sitting on the stairs. She was sobbing. Uncontrollably. My love, what’s happened? I thought for sure we’d lost the baby. I went to her on my knees. She choked out that she didn’t want to do this anymore. Do what? Live. I didn’t catch her meaning at first. I didn’t understand, maybe didn’t want to understand. My mind just didn’t want to process the words. It’s all so painful, she was saying. What is? To be hated like this—for what? What had she done? she asked. She really wanted to know. What sin had she committed to deserve this kind of treatment? She just wanted to make the pain stop, she said. Not only for her, for everyone. For me, for her mother. But she couldn’t make it stop, so she’d decided to disappear. Disappear? Without her, she said, all the press would go away, and then I wouldn’t have to live like this. Our unborn child would never have to live like this. It’s so clear, she kept saying, it’s so clear. Just stop breathing. Stop being. This exists because I exist. I begged her not to talk like that. I promised her we’d get through it, we’d find a way. In the meantime, we’d find her the help she needed. I asked her to be strong, hang on. Incredibly, while reassuring her, and hugging her, I couldn’t entirely stop thinking like a fucking royal. We had a Sentebale engagement that night, at the Royal Albert Hall, and I kept telling myself: We can’t be late. We cannot be late. They’ll skin us alive! And they’ll blame her. Slowly—too slowly—I realized that tardiness was the least of our problems. I said she should skip the engagement, of course. I needed to go, make a quick appearance, but I’d be home fast. No, she insisted, she didn’t trust herself to be at home alone for even an hour with such dark feelings. So we put on our best kit, and she applied dark, dark lipstick to draw attention away from her bloodshot eyes, and out of the door we went. The car pulled up outside the Royal Albert Hall, and as we stepped into the blue flashing lights of the police escort and the whiteout lights of the press’s flashbulbs, Meg reached for my hand. She gripped it tightly. As we went inside, she gripped it even tighter. I was buoyed by the tightness of that grip. She’s hanging on, I thought. Better than letting go. But when we settled into the royal box, and the lights dimmed, she let go of her emotions. She couldn’t hold back the tears. She wept silently. The music struck up, we turned and faced the front. We spent the entire length of the performance (Cirque du Soleil) squeezing each other’s hands, me promising her in a whisper: Trust me. I’ll keep you safe.

... there are clear parallels between the Supreme Court's language describing black slaves in the infamous Dred Scott v. Sandford slavery case, and the court's language describing unborn babies in Roe v. Wade (1973) and Planned Parenthood v. Casey (1992).

Before I could say anything the other gagged my mouth with a stone ball. I wanted to say what fools they were, but not the first fool in Dolingo. How could I confess anything with my mouth gagged? And the boy’s smell came to my nose again, so strong, almost as if he was right outside this cell, but now moving away. The one-eyed scientist pulled a knot at his neck and removed his hood. Bad Ibeji. I heard of one found at the foot of the Hills of Enchantment, which the Sangoma burned, even though it was already dead. Even in death it shook the unshakable woman, for it was the one mingi she would kill on sight. Bad Ibeji was never to be born but is not the unborn Douada, who roams the spirit world, wiggling on air like a tadpole and sometimes slipping into this world through a newborn. Bad Ibeji was the twin that the womb squeezed and crushed, tried to melt, but could not melt away. Bad Ibeji grows on its malcontent like that devil of the body’s own flesh, that bursts through the breasts of woman, killing her by poisoning her blood and bone. Bad Ibeji knows it will never be the favored one, so it attacks the other twin in the womb. Bad Ibeji sometimes dies at birth when the mind did not grow. When the mind did grow, all it knows to do is survive. It burrows into the twin’s skin, sucking food and water from his flesh. It leaves the womb with the twin, and sticks so tight to his skin that the mother thinks this too is the baby’s flesh, unformed, ugly like a burn and not handsome, and sometimes throws away them both to the open lands to die. It is wrinkled and puffy flesh, and skin and hair, and one eye big and a mouth that drools without stop, and one hand with claws and another stuck on the belly as if sewn, and useless legs that flap like fins, a thin penis, stiff like a finger, and hole that bursts shit like lava. It hates the twin for it will never be the twin, but it needs the twin for it cannot eat food, or drink water as it has no throat, and teeth grow anywhere, even above the eye. Parasite. Fat, and lumpy, like cow entrails tied together, and leaving slime where it crawls.

Before I could say anything the other gagged my mouth with a stone ball. I wanted to say what fools they were, but not the first fool in Dolingo. How could I confess anything with my mouth gagged? And the boy’s smell came to my nose again, so strong, almost as if he was right outside this cell, but now moving away. The one-eyed scientist pulled a knot at his neck and removed his hood. Bad Ibeji. I heard of one found at the foot of the Hills of Enchantment, which the Sangoma burned, even though it was already dead. Even in death it shook the unshakable woman, for it was the one mingi she would kill on sight. Bad Ibeji was never to be born but is not the unborn Douada, who roams the spirit world, wiggling on air like a tadpole and sometimes slipping into this world through a newborn. Bad Ibeji was the twin that the womb squeezed and crushed, tried to melt, but could not melt away. Bad Ibeji grows on its malcontent like that devil of the body’s own flesh, that bursts through the breasts of woman, killing her by poisoning her blood and bone. Bad Ibeji knows it will never be the favored one, so it attacks the other twin in the womb. Bad Ibeji sometimes dies at birth when the mind did not grow. When the mind did grow, all it knows to do is survive. It burrows into the twin’s skin, sucking food and water from his flesh. It leaves the womb with the twin, and sticks so tight to his skin that the mother thinks this too is the baby’s flesh, unformed, ugly like a burn and not handsome, and sometimes throws away them both to the open lands to die. It is wrinkled and puffy flesh, and skin and hair, and one eye big and a mouth that drools without stop, and one hand with claws and another stuck on the belly as if sewn, and useless legs that flap like fins, a thin penis, stiff like a finger, and hole that bursts shit like lava. It hates the twin for it will never be the twin, but it needs the twin for it cannot eat food, or drink water as it has no throat, and teeth grow anywhere, even above the eye. Parasite. Fat, and lumpy, like cow entrails tied together, and leaving slime where it crawls. The Bad Ibeji’s one hand splayed itself on the one-eyed scientist’s neck and chest. He unhooked each claw and a little blood ran out of each hole. The second hand unwrapped itself from the scientist’s waist, leaving a welt. I shook and screamed into the gag and kicked against the shackles but the only thing free was my nose to huff. The Bad Ibeji pulled his head off the twin’s shoulder and one eye popped open. The head, a lump upon a lump, upon a lump, with warts, and veins, and huge swellings on the right cheek with a little thing flapping like a finger. His mouth, squeezed at the corners, flopped open, and his body jerked and sagged like kneaded flour being slapped. From the mouth came a gurgle like from a baby. The Bad Ibeji left the scientist’s shoulder and slithered on my belly and up to my chest, smelling of arm funk and shit of the sick. The other scientist grabbed my head with both sides and held it stiff. I struggled and struggled, shaking, trying to nod, trying to kick, trying to scream, but all I could do was blink and breathe.

It is disingenuous to claim that a fetus is not a definite, living human being. Those who have seen ultrasound images of pre-born babies have eyewitness, empirical evidence of the unborns’ living humanity.

As Michael Bauman of Hillsdale College frankly comments: We hide the fetal holocaust that surrounds us every day just as effectively as the Nazis hid their extermination of the Jews. And we do it the same way. We cannot bring ourselves to utter the “M” word, though we commit the “M” act. That is, we do not murder unborn children, we “abort fetuses”…. Some of the more squeamish among us are unable even to say the “A” word. Though by aborting fetuses rather than murdering babies our linguistic sleight of hand has hidden the real nature of our action (murder) and the real identity of our victim (baby), some people require a still heavier dose of verbal opium. We must tell them they are merely “terminating a pregnancy,” which eliminates overt reference to any living thing…. If “terminating pregnancies” is still too overt a verbal description because the word pregnant tends to evoke unfortunate images of happy women large with child, we can hide the crime behind an even more impersonal wall of words. We can say that the murdering of unborn children is nothing more than the voluntary extraction of the “product of conception,” or, as nearly all abortion clinics have it, “removing the POC.” What could be more innocent.20

To most Americans—including me these days—it is gut-check self-evident that a fertilized egg is not a person, because personhood is a lot more than a collection of chromosomes in a Petri dish or in the womb. To most Americans—including me these days—it is also gut-check self-evident that an unborn baby is mighty like one of us, and that a lot of fast talking about reproductive rights and choice or a woman’s mental well-being doesn’t answer the horror of a three-pound child with her head deliberately caved in lying in a medical waste receptacle.

Wild animals have laws to protect them from wanton slaughter; laws that establish a kill limit and restrict hunters to a short hunting season. But wherever abortion is legal, unborn children are targets 24/7/365. And there are no limits to the number of babies that a woman can bag-and-tag.

Have you no humanity? You want to kill our unborn child? Have you forgotten that you too once lay in your mother's womb? Humanity? If your baby turns out to be a girl, you'll throw her into the river, so don't talk to me about humanity! You migrant workers travel around the country dumping baby girls as you do. You're the ones who have no shame! You think we wanted to come here and deal with you squalid boat people? No, the higher authorities sent us here because of all the filth that's been washing up downstream.

By the ruling of the Supreme Court, the unborn baby is not counted as a person.

In our day, quite rightly, there has been a hue and cry against some of our ancestors’ cruel viewing of the black slave as a non-person. This was horrible indeed—an act of hypocrisy as well as cruelty. But now, by an arbitrary absolute brought in on the humanist flow, millions of unborn babies of every color of skin are equally by law declared non-persons. Surely this, too, must be seen as an act of hypocrisy.

However you translate this phrase, the meaning is obvious: sin and wickedness will have run their course and finally, after thousands of years, reached an end point. That means there will be no more capacity to be sensitive to sin. Mankind’s conscience will have been seared—yes, that is how evil the world will be. At that point, when sin has reached its maximum, the Anti-Messiah will show up and appear to save the day. He will come when people on earth have become so saturated with darkness and when evil is so abundant—when there’s such a demonic stronghold and Satan has such reign on the earth—mankind will no longer be able to tell the difference between right and wrong. They will be incapable of detecting such darkness in a global leader because the entire world—including themselves—will be so darkened by sin. In the previous chapter we looked at past examples of when the world had grown this dark. In Noah’s time the world was so filled with violence that it corrupted the planet. In Lot’s time Sodom and Gomorrah were so overrun by sexual immorality that the cities’ men threatened to kill Lot if he prevented them from having sex with the angels visiting him. In our time more people are enslaved than ever in history, and each year as many unborn babies are murdered as American soldiers have been killed in all wars combined.5 We celebrate our immorality by marketing it as entertainment, and we even bless such immorality in our churches when we approve of homosexuality

The prime and ultimate philosophical question has to do with the nature and destiny of man, Camus once wrote. And surely the nature of the embryo/fetus should be at the heart of any serious discussion of the ethic and morality of abortion. Here, not to define is to define; to ignore is to deny. When abortionists ignore the human manifestations of the developing baby, as established by genetics and microbiology, they define him out of the human race.

On November 13, the badly decomposed remains of Mary Meehan and her unborn baby were found buried beneath an empty lot, south of Sea-Tac. Meehan was the only victim to be fully buried by the killer.

It’s not wrong to want unborn babies to have a chance at life. It’s not wrong to want a strong military and protected borders. It’s not wrong to want a healthy economy and high-paying jobs. It is wrong if we have to align ourselves with evil in order to get those things. It is wrong if we have to excuse abuse, misogyny, sexism, racism, violence, perversion, and lies. It is wrong, if, in pursuit of the good, we preach morality at the same time we align ourselves with the blatantly immoral. The Bible has a word for the giving up of one’s dignity, respect, and integrity in exchange for a commodity (or platform). It’s called prostitution. “Therefore repent and turn back so that your sins may be wiped out, so that times of refreshing may come from the presence of the Lord, and so that he may send the Messiah appointed for you—that is, Jesus.”316