In loving memory of God's aborted unborn children

Then I pictured them there, lined up in procession--the little ones whom our society has failed to keep safe.

DETROIT (Catholic Online) - It was one of those near-perfect summer Saturdays, late in the afternoon. My fellow parishioners were trickling in--even though there was nothing really to trickle into--walking from their cars with lawn chairs brought from home. A soft breeze wove through the scattered tall trees--swaying them like fragile flying buttresses. They were useless supports for the cathedral's vaulted blue ceiling above.

Many of our parishioners had arrived at this sacred outdoor spot far in advance. Their places were reserved with markers displaying their names--and the times when they first arrived. One stone marker stood out. It was larger than most. But it had no name. No time or date either.

Members of the Color Guard were gathering around it. My wife and kids and I were within earshot. They politely chatted with our pastor as they straightened their regalia and prepared for the formalities. Capes, fancy hats and shiny things caught the attention of my children. "Are those real swords?" my five-year old asked as one man drew his out, giving it a final inspection and a wipe with his bright white glove.

"Yes," I told him. He reached for my hand.

"Are they going to hurt anyone?" he wondered in his innocence. I smiled, but tried not to laugh. His worry was serious.

"No, buddy. These are good guys. They don't hurt people with their swords," I said. He was happy with my answer. I realized I could have said so much more explaining these charitable brothers called Knights.

His last question carried more irony than I first grinned at, considering why the men were here at this special outdoor Mass. Sure the men had swords, and by now he's old enough to know that swords are weapons which have the power to harm. The irony--the thing he doesn't even have a clue to ask about--is why people would ever hurt or kill anyone with them... most especially children. He's also much too young to fathom the real reason we were "going to church in a cemetery" this particular weekend.

We were here to pray for (among other things) the conversion of people who do indeed wield deadly arms; people who draw them against the most innocent. It struck me then: one dreaded day he will ask me far more frightening questions about what really goes on in the world, and I will have to explain to him things I don't even understand--like choices and babies and truly dangerous men and women who wear gloves that are definitely not white when they're done using them.

There will be no grins or laughter that day, I thought. Just tears, I imagine. How tragic that a child alive today--a "survivor" in this era of legalized abortion--eventually has the innocence of his childhood ended by the thing as well. Is there anyone whose "inner child" is not horribly wounded by abortion?

He distracted me from the sad wanderings--as my kids usually do--turning to tell his brothers and their little sister, "Dad says the swords are real, but don't worry because we're safe." All of them were glad to hear it. The four looked on as the men straightened each others' collars and bow ties, or brushed away any dust or cottonwood seeds that may have landed on a brother's black tuxedo. Their young minds were enchanted by these chivalrous looking men who seemed to belong to some past civilization.

These Knights of Columbus were discussing with our parish priest their role in the liturgy. Just as they were falling into formation, Father noticed the seats were unaligned and that the gatherers seemed a bit scattered across the lawn. The men "broke ranks." They were among us immediately, helping us arrange our "pews", separating clusters of seats up through the middle of the congregation to form an aisle for the processional. Among the casually dressed parishioners, they brought a noticeable decorum and order to the open-air church.

Order, I thought. We need to keep it. I looked at the trees scattered among the rows of headstones and saw how instinctual it is for us to keep our humanity in order--even while it sleeps.

Why is it we wander from the straight ways of civility and order at times? It's a huge temptation of our age, to stray from the rules and roam wherever we please. Soon we find ourselves out of earshot from our parents, our priests, and the other voices of wisdom who know how to explain civilization... and the best ways to preserve it. We casually meander into our own little worlds--dark forests of unbridled freedom and fun. Before we know it we're lost in a tangled mess of sin that blocks our path to the open, sunlit fields where Truth and true freedom are easier to find. Is it because we're a generation that's dropped our moral compass? Or traded it in? Swapped it for some crazy man-made map that promises to lead us to the secular world's decaying buried treasures?

I squeezed the small hand that was still holding mine. Real treasure, I thought. If others could only find it.

I took my usual litany of intentions for the Mass and let the wind take them up to the altar in heaven. They were names, mostly. The people in my life who've strayed from the Faith to follow their own myths. The ones who've stopped going to Mass because someone, or something, convinced them that our Sunday obligation can be whatever or wherever they want--the beach, the woods, a golf course, or the back patio with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. Anywhere except in a Church where there are rows and aisles. And yes, rules. An easy hour's worth of rules. The simple structures that guide the way we publicly send our praise and thanksgiving--as well as the souls of our dearly departed--upward to our God.

I know too many people who have simply grown accustomed to living as far from rules as they can get, refusing always and everywhere to be "told what to do." And they're lost. They don't know how much more there is to life than the circular chase of their own personal fancies. If they only knew that Jesus is waiting for them, right at the end of an aisle. Up on the altar at Mass, He comes, wanting us to find Him.

He wants so much to grab our hand and pull us out of our messes. And He doesn't hide. That's because He is the Way. He told us so Himself. The path that leads us back from our selfish and sometimes dark wanderings.

As we approach Him on the altar, we notice that we are surrounded by rows and rows of imperfect people who've also come to find the Way. But we have to enter to see them, and to hear that we can all be restored to the real, true nobleness within each one of us. Inside the Church we're reminded that order and civilization separate us from the purely natural--the things that live in the wild. Things that frighten us. Things that remind us we're all powerless little children journeying through a scary world searching for a Father's mighty protection.

Soon the Color Guard was back in line. The Order of the Mass was beginning. They marched toward the makeshift altar with their backs to the thick slab of polished black granite that stood upright, a little taller than a five year old, behind the last row of lawn chairs. "In loving memory of God's aborted unborn children," the inscription read.

Then I pictured them there, lined up in procession--the little ones whom our society has failed to keep safe. How they must be begging for us to get this world back in order. If only we could hear their voices, like prophets crying out from the wilderness as they have since the ancient times of Isaiah, "Make straight in the wasteland... a highway for our God."

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Len Gutmann lives in the Detroit area. He is a member of the Knights of Columbus, and is active in his parish's pro-life group. A carpenter and the father of four, he writes with the support of his wife, and at the behest of JPII's call to work for the new evangelization.

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