The silent
march was nearly over. We had stood in
the bitter cold; barely recognizable to each other due to all the layers of
coats and hats and scarves we had tightly wrapped around us. It was seriously cold, the kind of cold that
causes you to lose feeling in your fingers and toes. We had listened to political speeches and
sang songs and gazed at all the Pro-Life signs that were held high by many
around us. My personality is not that of
a natural activist, so I was new to the whole “Rally and March” thing. To be honest, I was there by obligation. The school my sons attend supports the Georgia
Right To Life March every year by transporting the entire Middle School downtown
to the State Capitol to the event. I was
a designated driver/chaperone. This was
my older son’s third March. It was my
first. I felt a twinge of something over
that fact.
It seemed
fitting to march in complete silence.
They say the purpose of the silence is to symbolize the infant victims
whose cries have been silenced through legalized abortion in our country. The
death toll is now up to 55 million and is growing at the rate of 3000 per
day. The sheer numbers staggered my
mind. I thought about that as we marched
around downtown Atlanta. When there is
silence, there is actually time to think.
I also
thought about the professional lobbyist who made one of the speeches. He made the point that we’ve spent billions
of dollars in this county exploring the red planet, Mars. Why?
To search for signs of life – any life… even single-cell-amoeba life. Yet, we willingly destroy the most complex
arrangement of cells ever created by God, at the rate of 3000 per day on our
own soil. I think about that as I
march. It’s new perspective for me.
I think
about the lady who stepped up to the microphone and told the crowd that she was
the product of rape. Her biological
mother was brutally raped at age 15. And
then her biological mother did a very brave thing. She carried the child conceived in violence
to full term and then she gave her up for adoption to a family who loved her
from the start. The speaker made the
point that SHE was not a violent or brutal person despite her conception. I’d never thought of it that way before. I marched on wondering if I’d have that kind
of courage.
I was warned
that there may be hecklers, particularly as we marched around the campus of
Georgia State University. But here’s
something I learned on the march: hecklers are more inclined to participate
when it’s fair weather. Their indifference
and absence made an impression on me. I
glanced around at our Middle School students marching silently, with faces set
like flint, straight ahead into the cold wind.
They were standing up for what they believe, no matter the weather. I swallowed the lump that rose in my throat,
and I felt honored to march beside our kids who were veterans of the March,
even though their adult chaperone was a rookie.
We rounded
the last corner of the route and headed back to the Capitol building. This final street was particularly empty of
bystanders. The only people in view were
a few policemen lining the route, looking relieved that their peacekeeping
services were not needed. And that’s
when I heard it. It stood in stark
contrast to the silence of those marching.
Perhaps the acoustics of the clear, cold day aided in the amplification
of the sound. The lump I had worked hard
to swallow returned instantly as my ears recognized the sound of a lone trumpet
playing Taps.
I craned my neck to find
the source of the soulful sound. When my
eyes locked in on the musician, the lump won the battle and the tears began to
roll down my cheeks. It was a mom
playing that trumpet. She had a baby
strapped to her back in one of those “baby hikers”, and a preschool child on
each leg… maybe ages 4 and 2 or something like that. She just stood there, an empty stroller and
her kids as her only companions, and she played the 24 notes of Taps over and
over. I don’t know her story. Perhaps she had an abortion early in her life
and knows that the physical procedure heals but the scar on the soul never really
does. I don’t know if that’s her story,
but it IS the story of a couple of friends that I love. To them I would assert that the March is not
just about “protest”, it’s also about redemption. God can ease the pain of regret with the
promise of reunion. Amazing Grace.
Here’s the
thing: I will likely forget everything I heard from the polished political
speakers that day, but I will never forget that lone mother standing up for
truth. It reminded me of something the
prophet Jeremiah wrote:
Thus says the LORD: "Stand by the roads, and look, and ask for the ancient paths, where the good way is; and walk in it, and find rest for your souls. But they said, "We will not walk in it.' I set watchmen over you, saying, 'Pay attention to the sound of the trumpet!' But they said, 'We will not pay attention.'" - Jeremiah 6:16-18
I don't know if our participation in the Georgia Right To Life March made a real difference in the abortion debate in our country. The cynics among us would say that "no one paid any attention." But I learned something important from that trumpet-playing-mom. Standing up for truth, no matter the specific debate, is really something between you and God. I think He took note of that mom with her trumpet and I think He took note of our students shivering in the cold. Did it change anything, really? It did actually. It changed something in me. It transformed my mental image of an "activist." No longer do I picture a loud, banner-waving, angry person surrounded by hoards of like-minded people. Now I see it as a personal thing, a strong but simple thing. Something that stands out the way a tiny penlight stands out in a dark room. I've seen a true activist and I know what she looks like... and what she sounds like.
