The cold sensation of blueberry smoothie slipping down my face and into my right ear was not something I had experienced while praying in front of Planned Parenthood before. And the large blue stains on my white sweater would be a permanent reminder to pray for the unborn.

Just a few minutes before, as we drove over to the abortion clinic, my 17-year old son and I had been talking about what it meant to suffer for one’s faith, how it would involve interior pain and sadness — the suffering of Christ. I had a fleeting sense that the words might be prophetic, but quickly squelched the thought.

There were seven of us on the sidewalk this Monday of Holy Week — six students and myself, praying and offering resources to Planned Parenthood clients. We were finishing our second Rosary when two teenage girls approached us and asked “Why do you do this?”

It was clear that they had a lot of anger, and something else — something I couldn’t pinpoint that felt more frightening than post-abortive rage. Snarky questions were unexpectedly followed by the hurling of two large smoothies at point blank range and my filing a police report.

What stood out was the serene and joyful attitude of our students. They stayed polite, refused to take the bait when faced with accusations and insults, and in typical teenage fashion posed for a goofy group photo – decorated with green and blue smoothie and holding “Pray to End Abortion” signs.

But as Holy Week wore on, flashes of the hate we had encountered kept coming back to me, along with a profound sadness — the suffering of Christ, shared.

“We are little flames poorly sheltered by frail walls against the storm of dissolution and madness, in which we flicker and sometimes almost go out.”
– All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Maria Remarque

– Story by Monica Seeley