Marching at Home

Today was the 41st annual March for Life.  I've been marching almost every year since I was twelve.  I'd wake up early with my food all packed and get bundled up to brave D.C. in January, get on the bus, and be a part of something larger than Life.  This year, I didn't make it.  And I live about fifteen miles away now.

I was lamenting this fact as I shoveled my driveway while minding my four kids, seven and under, feeling a little guilty for not getting up the gumption to bundle us up and pack for a day of camaraderie with others who think we shouldn't pit pregnant women against the children they carry.  In my seventh month of pregnancy*, I considered taking them all into D.C. and braving the arctic freeze to be a witness to the necessity of ending the scourge of abortion in this country.

Then my five year old started to cry, waking me from my piteous guilt.  We'd been outside for ten, maybe fifteen minutes... after spending an hour getting dressed for the single digit weather.  But my five year old is not a typical five year old.  She is mentally retarded (Gasp!  I'll blog on that semantic dance another day) and has a host of other associated special needs including the inability to efficiently regulate her own body temperature.  She hates extremes and prefers climate controlled environments.  But she has also been stuck in the house for three weeks because of another medical condition and was so excited when everyone was getting dressed to get out.  So I included her.

Where was I? Oh, right, feeling guilty and she started to cry.  She held her red cold hands out to me as tears started streaming down her red cheeks.  She's a sensory seeker and hates to have her hands covered, therefore mittens or gloves had already been rejected.  I thought maybe they would remedy the situation now that she felt the natural consequences of refusing mittens.  But she refused them once again.  I took her inside, undressed her, and set her up in a safe place.  She was so happy.  She doesn't say much but she can say, "Thank you, Mommy" in her own way, which she did, repeatedly.  I went back out to finish shoveling and wrangle the troops to come inside.  It wasn't that hard.  It was darn cold out there.

But as I was pushing the snow to the edge of the driveway, I realized something.  My March for Life is here, and I march everyday.  My husband and I have opened our lives and hearts to the lives of six children - one lost in the womb to miscarriage - and are open to more, if that is God's Will for our family.  We care for a special child with considerable needs.  And in my daily tasks, I choose to live a Culture of Life, not always joyfully as I should, but always willfully. 

I hope I don't have to march again.  But today, I thank the next generation of pro-lifers who take up the banners and march.  I used to be you.  And I thank the old timers who don't want to have to march year after year because they want the fight to be won, but they do.  If the battle continues, I will march again too.  But for today, I keep all in prayer affected by the horrors of abortion, and I thank God for my beautiful children who gave me a most cherished title: mother.

*Disclaimer: My husband was on a business trip and stranded by the snow waiting for a flight.  He told me NOT to shovel, but I'm stubborn.