Even with three layers on the bottom and four layers on the top, it was cold. Winter weather, not fall. Not even late fall. But this is a season of thanks, and like the tenth leper, we were on our way to say it, come cloud, cold, or wind chill.
Half-constructed scaffolding enveloped the front steps of the Capitol building, in anticipation of an inaugural event. Trucks delivered porta-potties by the thousands, their ranks at attention up and down the full length of the Mall from the Museum of American History to the east wing of the National Gallery of Art.
A few blocks over, the driveway dropped precipitously into the parking garage, falling away from 15th Street NW in Washington, DC with the speed of a sinner’s descent. It was Saturday, and the parking spaces normally reserved for this government agency and that, stared at us vacantly.
We parked, then buttoned, zipped, and velcro-ed our way into layers of insulation, and sliding homemade signs from behind the seats, clambered up out of the parking pit and made our way toward the White House.
A smiling handy-man, unloading his truck onto the sidewalk blocked our way.
“Thank you, President…” he spelled out slowly, tilting his chin to read the sign tucked beneath my daughter’s arm as we squeezed by, “…Bush?” His smile narrowed into a scowl. He looked at me incredulously. “Bush? For WHAT?”
“For saving babies,” I replied, still walking.
“If you say so,” he muttered, clearly wishing I didn’t.
“I love it when people oppose us,” said my pugnacious twelve-year-old boy, striding down the block next to me, “it makes me want to FIGHT them! I hope there are LOTS of protesters!”
What can you say to that? I didn’t try.
But as it turned out, Joe the Handyman was the only opposition we encountered during the four hours the permit allowed for our “Thanks-gathering” on the North Lawn of the White House. Other than the opposing wind.
Lots of tourists snapped pictures. The glittery “We love President Bush” sign in the front row caught their attention. Elsewhere in our little crowd were notes of thanks, appreciation, and admiration for the man who has led our country for the past eight years.
“Why no like Obama?” asked a man from the sidewalk we were not allowed to block.
“Mr. Obama’s a good man,” I replied, “but he doesn’t protect the babies.”
“Eight year, done,” the man gestured with finality, then took out a camera and clicked a souvenir to show the folks back home.
“Hey! I voted for Bush twice!” He was a fit young man on a bicycle, whizzing by at triathalon speed. We cheered.
A moment later, he circled back and slowed to a sedate roll. “I served three tours in Iraq because President Bush asked me to!” We cheered again as he sped off.
The sun ducked behind the clouds as the wind simultaneously picked up speed, driving the cold through our winter jackets, the temperature dropping like popularity ratings.
Two serious-looking women approached across the lawn. They looked like they meant business, and I braced myself for their verbal onslaught.
“Finally!” said the one with long red hair, “we’ve been looking all over for you!” The other nodded solemnly, pulled a “Bush Cheney 04” sign from under her jacket, and closed ranks with us.
“What if President Bush looks out the window and sees us, Mama? Do you think he’ll come out and say hi? Oh, man! The Secret Service would be EVERYWHERE! Do you think they’d have guns?” It was my twelve-year-old.
“He’s in Peru,” the organizer whispered to me behind her sign.
“Don’t tell the kids that,” I whispered back, imagining dashed hopes all over the lawn.
“He’s not here,” announced my practical eight-year-old to his older brother. “He’s at an economic summit in South America.”
“Oh. But maybe someone will come out and take pictures and show them to the President! That would be so cool!”
“I can’t believe this!” We looked up to see an older man staring at us from the sidewalk, palms up. “I’ve lived in this town all my life, and you NEVER see anyone saying thank you! Everyone lines up to complain, but no one ever says thank you! Huh!” He walked away, shaking his head.
“There’s no predicting people,” I turned toward the organizer, but she was gone.
“I’m coooooold, Mama!”
“Can we go now?”
“Not yet, little people. We’re making an extra sacrifice in all this cold. We’re learning gratitude.”
“While we’re standing here,” said the Mom bouncing a four-year-old in her arms, “We can say a prayer for Mr. Obama.”
The children amused themselves by feeding popcorn to the obese squirrels who nibbled out of their mittens before retreating up the oak tree to dangle by hind legs and feed.
I turned to find the organizer back at my side.
“People from the White House!” She indicated with her thumb. “They want us to come back on January 17, and they’ll bring the press! They really want the President to see this! They’re going to give him the pictures! I guess that means we’re going to need another permit. How’re we gonna get another permit?”
“Shannon, they approved this permit in ONE HOUR, that’s unheard of!”
“Yeah, it’s true. They told me they have a zillion permit applications for groups to badmouth the president, but this was a first for them.”
“So it won’t be a problem to get the next one.”
“But then we’ve gotta get more people here!” She glanced around at the fifty or so sign holders and shook her head. “It’s like the ten lepers. Nine won’t come and say thanks.”
“We’ll work on it. We’ll let them know it’s on January 17th on the North Lawn of the White House. And we’ll each bring everyone we know.”
“Go your way, your faith has healed you,” she quipped.
And there we stood, until the permit expired and the wind chased us away, holding signs and laughing. Catholic, Protestant, white, Hispanic, Asian, old, young, everyone thankful for the great gift of a leader who defends life.
