The day was bone-chillingly cold and damp, but with high emotions. Looking down Constitution Avenue from the rise at the Capitol, the crowd was endless, a sea of banners and flags and umbrellas. The energy, as typical, was mainly youthful excitement.
I get the point of having an upbeat affair — but, still, something about that strikes me as inappropriate. The March for Life marks each year the anniversary of a most unhappy day, not a cause for celebration.
So I was grateful for a one experience that stood out in contrast to the generally buoyant mood. I saw a young man in his late 20s help a lady in her 60s step down from a low wall across the street from the Supreme Court. I had been up on the same wall next to them, all of us strangers, for about 10 or 15 minutes, but the police ordered everyone down. As the lady thanked the young man for his help, he noticed the sign she was carrying — “My Abortion Hurt Me” — and his eyes welled up. He said something to her, hugged her, and then his eyes were red with tears. I felt awkward watching them and hurried myself along, but the last I saw they were continuing to talk, the lady trying to console the young man.