1. Are the unborn in Heaven?
Yes. The unborn are not lost in limbo.
They are not drifting in the dark.
They are alive—in light, in glory, in God.
They do not wait for salvation; they are the proof of it.
They are not erased—they are embraced.
Not forgotten—they are forever.

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2. Will I ever meet my unborn child?
Yes. There will be no awkwardness, no introductions, no explaining.
Only instant knowing—deep calling to deep.
They will not shrink back from you.
They will run, radiant and whole, arms wide open.
And in that moment, eternity will kneel, and all things will be made new.

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3. Does God forgive abortion?
Yes. Not with reluctance, but with rejoicing.
Forgiveness is not earned—it is given.
Not withheld for the worthy, but poured out for the willing.
At the cross, Jesus did not weigh your sin—He bore it.
Grace was not nailed to shame. Grace nailed shame to the cross.

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4. Is it too late for me to heal?
No. If you are breathing, you are becoming.
Healing does not ask where you’ve been—only where you’re going.
It’s never too late to begin.
Never too broken to rebuild.
Never too wounded to rise.

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5. Can men feel this too? (And what is abortion kryptonite?)
Yes. Men bleed—internally, invisibly, eternally.
They grieve not only what happened, but what could have been.
And within that grief lies their abortion kryptonite.

Abortion kryptonite is the sacred wound left behind.
For men, it is powerlessness—the shame of not protecting, not preventing, not providing.
For women, it is disconnection—from the womb, from worth, from the whisper of who she was.
But this is not a curse—it is a calling.
Not to collapse, but to rise.
It is the ache that leads to awakening.
The wound that calls forth the warrior.

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6. What if I don’t feel guilt—only emptiness?
Then that emptiness is not a punishment—it is a portal.
It is the silent space where something holy begins to move.
It is not absence—it is invitation.
An aching cradle waiting to be filled with fire, truth, and peace.

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7. Will my unborn child be angry at me?
No. The unborn do not carry wrath.
They carry wonder.
They are not waiting to accuse—they are waiting to affirm.
They are not asking "why?"—they are whispering "when?"
When will you remember me?
When will you speak my name?
When will you believe you are still worthy of love?

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8. What if I had no choice?
Then know this: your story is sacred, even if it was forced.
Your dignity cannot be stolen, only silenced—and even then, it remembers its name.
No one can take away your right to rise.
And rise you shall.

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9. Why does no one talk about this?
Because the world fears what it cannot fix.
Because pain makes people uncomfortable.
Because culture cancels what it doesn’t want to carry.
But silence is not strength—it is suffocation.
And now, finally, this is where silence ends.

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10. Can something sacred come from my sorrow?
Yes. Not despite it—but because of it.
God does not waste pain.
Your sorrow is not a grave—it is a garden.
Something sacred wants to grow from this.
Let it.

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11. What do I do with the anniversary date?
You mark it—not with mourning, but with meaning.
You do not ignore the day.
You redeem it.
Light a candle.
Write a name.
Plant a tree.
Build a wall.
Speak it into sacredness.
Make it a moment of memory, not misery.

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12. Why do I still cry—years later?
Because grief is not governed by clocks.
Because love does not expire.
Because memory is a form of mothering.
You cry because you care.
You remember because you honour.
Tears are not weakness—they are worship.

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