When people talk about the missing children who perish in abortions around the world, I think about my little brother, James.
What would my life be without him? Brother fighting with brother, brother joshing brother, brother suffering with brother at the death of parents, brother consoling brother, little brother breathing, there.
How could it be if my mom had miscarried and James had never seen the light of day? My world would be without the sun, and joy would disappear in the static noise of a channel without a source.
And perhaps Andrea Bocelli is like that to someone. If his mother had aborted as the doctors recommended, where would this planet be? How could his mother be consoled?
But Andrea Bocelli is here. My little brother, James, is here.
In the spring of 1945, Viktor Frankl walked out of Dachau concentration camp, free, a few days after liberation by the Americans. He walked for miles in the spring air. He stopped and saw some larks and listened to their joyful singing, and in that moment he prayed and knew his new life was beginning.
I think about Viktor Frankl and those larks often. My little brother, James, is here.