December 19, 2013 ( – The van’s heater must not have been working properly that winter’s night near Christmastime almost thirty years ago. We had been out visiting relatives in the city for the day and were now on the many hours journey back home to our farm in the country.

And boy was it ever cold, frosty, and blustery outside. The cold’s icy fingers had been relentlessly pursuing our old-clunker Chev the whole trip home.


And now, sitting in the back seat, I could feel the numbing cold grip slowly tightening around my fingers and toes, arms and legs, helpless to do anything about it.

As the van finally pulled into our driveway, I remember well the misery of being a frozen four-year old boy who had sat in that cold van for hours. The house would be cold too, since no one had been around to tend the fire in the kitchen cookstove, our house’s main source of heat.

The prospect of moving from the van to a probably even colder house was dismal indeed. But then something unexpected happened that I have come to treasure as one of my warmest childhood memories.

My parents quickly scooped us kids out of our seats, held us close, and rushed us into the dark house. They laid us gently down on their own bed, tucking us under their thick, heavy, down-filled duvet. I suspect that they may have turned on an electric warming blanket under the duvet that my mom often used to help loosen her shoulder that would stiffen during the cold months.

Within moments life-reviving warmth began to seep into my whole being, surging through my fingers and toes, arms and legs. Next I heard clanking sounds and hurried movement coming from the kitchen. Lights had been turned on. My parents were bringing in firewood and the wood stove was being prepared for a fire.

A sense of well-being enveloped me. We had made it home safely and our home was becoming all warm and cozy.

Gradually I drifted off to the peaceful happy sleep of the well-contented. While I could not express it in words at that time, I knew that something profound had touched and warmed my very soul.

It wasn’t until years later that I was able to put words to that experience.

I now know that at that moment I experienced the meaning of being a child.

Being a child means resting securely in the sure knowledge that someone who loves you is looking after you, caring for you, meeting your needs. It means jumping off the kitchen table at the bidding of your dad with unflinching certitude that he will catch you before you hit the ground. It means letting your mother tend to you in all her surprising and unexpected ways that warms your heart with the utmost delight. It means completely and utterly depending on someone who loves you to provide for your every need.


The meaning of being a child has been almost entirely lost in today’s prevailing culture. The world of contraception, abortion, the breakdown of marriage, divorce, human trafficking and sexual abuse is essentially a place that does not welcome the child. It’s a culture that’s essentially anti-child. Because it has rejected the child, it inflicts death, wounding, and suffering on all in it.

While many are aghast at witnessing government, schools, and various public institutions across the nation diminishing the meaning of the child, most do not know what to do about it.

But children and everything that it means to be a child must be fought for. The best part about being a reporter for LifeSiteNews is being able to doing something substantial for the child and for a culture where children flourish.

While practically every story I write highlights how nations, governments, peoples, and cultures have failed the child, these stories are not written to be sensationalist, to make people depressed, or to point the finger of judgment at someone. They are written to motivate change by bringing to light what needs to be changed.

I loved writing the story about Monica Kelsey who was conceived in rape but who didn’t find out about it until an adult. When Monica recently found a rare diamond at Crater of Diamonds State Park in Arkansas, she came to the realization that although conceived in the horrible act of rape, she was really a “diamond in the rough”.

“That’s so awesome,” I remember thinking after interviewing Monica. “This is the kind of story that will change anyone’s mind who is against abortion ‘except in the case of rape.’”

Anyone reading Monica’s story sees that every life, no matter how it came to be, is precious.

And seeing life as precious is the first mark of a culture that will always welcome children.

As a pro-life reporter I love listening to people like Monica who have something extremely important to tell others, and then professionally writing her story so that it will have an impact on tens of thousands of people.

However, changing the culture to embrace children and the meaning of being a child is not something that we LifeSiteNews reporters can do alone.

Our team totally relies on your financial help for us to be able to write and publish between 10-20 unique stories every day, five days a week, on the issues that matter the most in these crucial times.

We are not supported by any church body, and we receive no government funding. While this allows us full freedom to report in areas where others fear to tread, it makes us periodic beggars (four times per year to be exact).

We have no multi-million-dollar donors. All our small, but exceptionally dedicated team has to rely upon is you, dear reader. You, who believes that truth in media can change the world.

Your donation, however big or small, allows us to impact the culture for the good of children and their families around the world. Yes, we have such a wide impact.

We still need to raise $148,000 by Dec. 31 to keep this mission going. I realize that is asking a lot, but you know, for all that we do, it really isn’t that much compared to the gigantic budgets of all the other media that do not value the child and the family.

Please donate to our Christmas campaign. Help us bring that sense of love and warmth of total acceptance that I recalled on that very cold day years ago, to the children of the world. It won’t be forgotten, as I have never forgotten what my parents brought into my heart.

May the heavenly peace that only comes from the Christ-child abundantly bless you and yours!

Your pro-life-and-family journalist,

Pete Baklinski


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