My Mom’s Hat

Twenty-one years ago, my mom asked me if I would like to get on a charter bus, ride overnight to Washington, D.C., walk alongside of her in the March for Life, and get back on the bus to ride overnight back home.

I was a junior in high school at the time, and the thought of traveling to our nation’s capital to march in peaceful protest against the atrocity of legalized abortion and in support of women and children thrilled me. It held the golden appeal of a pilgrimage of sorts.

I was soon to learn that not all aspects of participating in the March for Life were golden – the grimy reality of wearing the same change of clothes for three days in a row, the face-numbing cold and bone-chilling wind, the presence of angry pro-choicers yelling obscenities from the sidelines, the heart-breaking news (during the following year’s march) that President Clinton was planning on vetoing the Partial-Birth Abortion Ban Act – but there was something remarkable about marching side-by-side with thousands of strangers in a holy endeavor. I left that march with a clear picture of just how important and necessary it is to speak up for the rights of those who have no voice of their own.

Fast forward to this year.

I called my mom to tell her the forecast for this year’s march. I was in need of a longer coat, and I asked her if she had one that I could borrow. She did more than that. She let me borrow her hat and scarf, too.

As I pulled some knitted accessories out of the bag she handed me, I sucked in my breath. There was the very hat she had worn twenty-one years before in the March for Life. I don’t know if she intended for the gesture to be sentimental or not, but the significance of the hat was not lost on me.

On January 22nd, 2016, the 43rd anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I stood before the Washington monument and put on my mother’s hat. I started to cry, because I couldn’t help but marvel at how our Lord preserves His church. My generation is not the only profile generation. There have been many, many that have come before us.

My mom is one of them.

Thank you, Mom, for teaching me to use my feet to march for the good of my littlest neighbors. It is a privilege, not only to follow in your footsteps, but also to wear your hat.

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