I've held off for a couple of days writing this, hoping that my thoughts and emotions would sort themselves out into something coherent.  They haven't as yet, but I shall write anyway.

It's not your usual death.  However, it grieves me greatly.  My life will forever be missing someone.  Whenever I think of it, and the circumstances surrounding it, my chest constricts in a way I've never known, and I weep, not only for myself, but for Adam, for my children, for my parents.

But most of all, for my devastated dearest brother, who's first child was aborted by his ex-girlfriend at 11 weeks.

If I'm honest, and I'm so glad I can be here, I'm angry. Furious even.  I loved that precious little life.  I'd never met his girlfriend.  But I adore my brother, and he was so overjoyed to become a father.  It's all he's ever wanted.  I'm angry because Rob didn't want her to.  I'm angry because, as in his words, "But what could I do?  She didn't want it."

And he's right.  She left him, and decided she didn't want it after all.  He's in the navy. He's at sea the larger chunk of the year.  He couldn't have contested it.  He wouldn't have stood a chance.

And you know what?  I'm angry because we didn't get a say.  The aunts and the uncles, who were so excited, for the grandparents who never got to see the first son of their first son.  For the cousins, who, while they don't understand, I'm sure will feel the undercurrent for years.

I'm angry for the baby.  I've never known my heart and arms could ache so much for a child not of my own womb.  I'm angry that we couldn't save him.  I'm angry that even if we'd offered to have the baby, which we would of, without a second thought, it wouldn't have changed the outcome.

I'm angry there's no grave.  I'm angry he will never be spoken about. I'm angry he'll never be acknowledged.  I'm angry.  I'm ANGRY.

I never met him.  I never held him.  I never breathed him in. In fact, I don't even know if it was a boy.  But it's what comes naturally, and I believe the Lord it impressing it upon me.

And yet, I feel the compulsion to reach out to find him.  To cuddle him close, and tell him is loved, that he was wanted, and is the sweetest little smidgen to ever grace my life.

Babies were made to be cuddled... it is incomprehensible to me that he never was... by choice.

I can't write any more.  I just want to thump the keyboard and swear. Loudly.

Rest safe in the arms of Jesus, precious, beloved, sweet baby.