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I don’t think I’ve read a better piece of journalism in a long, long time.

As suggested by my source, stick with it all the way to the end.

I’ve got a funny habit. I’ve had it for a while. About three years ago I placed my hand on my first son’s chest while he was sleeping and felt for his breath. I didn’t feel anything at first. My hand was huge compared to his tiny chest. My fingers nearly wrapped around him. I needed to search for breathing and, after a short while, I found it. That tiny chest rose and fell. Relief washed over me. Satisfied, I returned to my bed.

Through the years, that little body has grown larger but that hand continues to chase its sleep. Sometimes that hand finds a back or a side. Sometimes it discovers a forehead or foot, depending on the lighting. A year ago, it found a second companion. My habit gives me reassurance. But, for a brief moment each night — maybe while I search the covers or cautiously feel through layers of warm clothing — I feel a little fear.

I’m certain that my friends, who lost their baby just a short time ago, are familiar with that feeling. Their little one spent his short time on this earth in the hospital. Their hands and hearts spent a lot of time searching, worrying, and praying.

I can’t pretend to understand their grief. As a father, I don’t want to try. But I want them to know they are in the thoughts and prayers of my wife and I. We think about them a lot.

About twice a night.

The wife has started to get on the Flickr bandwagon. The result? More pictures of the kids on the web. Stop by and check them out, if she hasn’t already sent you an update.