This afternoon I was reminded of an old Christian rock song from the '80's called I Blew Up the Clinic Real Good. The song was a favourite of mine in my younger, long blond hair years and was about an ice cream man who blew up the abortion clinic because if they kept killing children he'd be out of a job. I smiled and tapped my foot as I stood outside the abortion clinic today with my family.
Currently we are in the midst of the 40 Days for Life Campaign. A campaign of prayer to stop the murder of children in the womb in our beloved country of Canada.
And today, our family stood outside the abortion clinic for an hour of prayer.
At first, my younger children quickly hung the signs around their necks and strutted down the street. But, the novelty wore off quickly and then they were cold and found rocks and such to entertain themselves.
My older children were a bit shy at first ... perhaps intimidated (embarrassed) to wear a sign and be seen praying in public. They stood aloof and quiet, whilst their father (who loves making a spectacle) stood by the curb side, wearing two signs, rosary in hand, and prayed so no one could miss his point of being there.
After a bit, I called my older darlings to me and we had a talk. I needed to motivate them to pray and to make a stand. I showed them the 3rd floor windows where the abortions were happening today. I showed them the door where the women would walk through and the security guard watching us with an eagle eye.
Then, I talked about prayer. Our prayers are never in vain. When we pray specifically for a person and that person is not in a state of grace to receive the effects of our prayers it doesn't mean that our prayer was ineffective. Our Mother Mary takes our prayers and knows best how to use them and who needs them the most.
"But how do we know?" my son asked. "What if this is all a waste of time? I want to know if my prayers are helping someone."
I answered simply.
"My son, you won't know until you get to Heaven. But, when you get there, you may meet someone whose life was saved from abortion by your prayers."
This was enough.
My older children put on the placards, pulled out their rosaries and we prayed together. We completed our hour of prayer and vigil and headed home.
But ... it didn't end here.
The conversation continued on at home. By the end of the evening, the children were resolved to pray even more because there are lives to be saved. They want to go back and pray again!
At some level, the man in me wishes we had had a confrontation today, or that the police would've roughed us up at bit or something where we could bolster ourselves and insist on our rights to pray in public and so forth. In fact, the illogicalness of abortion 'rights' makes me so angry, I would rather have dynamite rather than a rosary. But my good wife reminded us all at the dinner table that first: the ends don't justify the means. We can't do evil deeds for a good end. And secondly, our weapons in this type of warfare are not to be found in fist fights, mud slinging, bombs and bravado. But rather, the weapon of our warfare is prayer.
My conclusion: Prayer is hard. Training kids to pray is harder. I, personally would prefer a crusade and good steel blade in my hand, but ... my wife is right. Today was a good day. Our children began their training in a different type of warfare. Our battle isn't with flesh and blood, but with those knavish demons in that cursed clinic who are seeking to destroy and to devour and need their asses kicked back to Hell.
Pax.
n.b. I'll leave you with another of my favourite Christian 80's songs: To Hell with the Devil.