A Tender Letter to an Unborn Child

This is a combination entry. Louis Cassels was the religion editor for United Press International for many years. He was also a wonderful man and a friend. When my wife and I were expecting our first child, I wrote my thoughts and showed them to Lou. He wrote the following. Unfortunately, his lead has one big error: Cyndy and I did not know each other until after I returned from Vietnam. I wrote me letter 39 years ago and Heather was my first born.

A Tender Letter To an Unborn Child
By Louis Cassels
WASHINGTON (UPI) – David is 27. Cyndy is 22.
They were married after David came home from his year in Vietnam—the longest year in Cyndy’s life.
They live in a one-bedroom apartment in Rosslyn, Va., just across the Potomac River from the downtown section of Washington.
As is often the case in today’s young marriages, both David and Cyndy work. But Cyndy will be retiring from business in a few months to take up another career. Her baby is due in January.
Because David and Cyndy are thoughtful and sensitive people, and David is a writer, it was natural for them to try to articulate the feelings they experienced when the doctor told Cyndy the big news.
So David composed “A Letter to My Unborn Child.” He did not think of it as something to be published, but simply as a private communication, which might or might not be shown some day to the addressee.
But his tenderly written letter expresses so perfectly the mixed emotions of a young couple about bringing a child into today’s world that a friend prevailed upon David to share it with a larger audience.
Here is David’s letter to his future son or daughter:
“Now, you are hardly discernible as a form of life as we on the outside know it. The doctor says you have formed some kind of a shape about 2 inches long. I’m 6-foot-1 now.
“According to the doctor, you should struggle from the womb next year during January. Your mother and I have reserved a place for you. I’m afraid you’ll have to share the same room with us for a while, but there is ample room. You won’t be too big for a while.
“I have spent and shall spend many more moments planning for you, at least until you are able to plan for yourself. What do we do between now and then? Now, don’t get me wrong. Your mother and I are looking forward to seeing you with a love that we have never had the opportunity to feel before. Your mother will do all the work and I’ll do all the worrying, but the three of us will get through it all and we’ll be mighty proud.
“But every once in a while, when I look out the window or walk down the street, I sense an apology in the recesses of my mind when I think of you.
“When I stand at a bus stop in a cloud of exhaust that lingers around me so I smell of the city when I go home or try to shield my eyes against the flying debris that litters the streets I wonder how your eyes and lungs will react to it. When I think of showing you this land of ours, I think of trash-lined highways, littered beaches and no-fishing signs warning of polluted waters. When I think of your mother taking you for a stroll n the fresh air, I wonder how far she will have to go to find that fresh air. How long will you be able to sleep with the jets overhead and the trucks below?
“And if you should survive the earth, sea and sky, will you survive your fellow man? I must apologize for what the past generation has left and what the present generation is creating.
“It is a selfish love that welcomes a newborn child into the world. We hope you don't suffer because of it.”