Book Excerpt: 'Our Lost Constitution' by Sen. Mike Lee

— -- Sen. Mike Lee discusses his new book on "This Week" Sunday.

Reprinted from Our Lost Constitution by Senator Mike Lee with permission of Sentinel, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright (c) Mike Lee, 2015.

Introduction:

My love for the U.S. Constitution took root in my earlyyears. From the time I was a young child, my parents taught meabout the separation of powers, checks and balances, due process,equal protection, and the limited role of our federal government. Itnever really occurred to me that I was being taught about the Constitution; these were just conversations we had from time to timearound the dinner table, in the car, and whenever the subject of government happened to arise. Before long, I learned what it meant tobe an appellate lawyer because every time my siblings or I woulddisagree with our parents’ decisions about bedtimes or chores or allowances, they would say, “Make your case. You’re probably notgoing to win, but we’ll listen.”

When I was about ten years old, I started routinely accompanyingmy dad whenever he argued cases before the U.S. Supreme Court.As kind and wise a man as I’ve ever known, he was the foundingdean of BYU’s law school, and in 1981 he became the solicitor gen-eral of the United States, the federal government’s chief advocatebefore the Supreme Court. I’d watch with bated breath as the black-robed justices fired questions at him. He had a way of answeringtheir questions in a manner that was not only responsive but alsocarefully calculated to advance his case. The verbal jousting I sawbetween lawyers and justices wasn’t quite as raucous as the debatesat our dinner table, but after the oral argument ended, my dad wouldbe so excited that he reminded me of a giddy child on a sugar high.

My dad didn’t win every argument at the Supreme Court, but he did win most of them. More important, however, he had a near-perfect batting average at home. He could simplify even the mostcomplicated of concepts, and I hung on his every word. I didn’t al-ways understand everything he said, but I sure made an effort—especially because he had a way of making almost any subject seeminteresting, and he loved it when any of his children showed genuineinterest in the Constitution. I still remember how pleased he seemedwhen, as a fourth grader, I replied to his explanation of America’slong-standing abortion debate by asking, “Shouldn’t this issue beaddressed by the states rather than by the federal courts?” My dad could hardly contain his joy. I was only nine or ten years old. A year or two later, the same issue arrived at our front door—literally.It was a cold morning in March. My parents had taken my threeyounger sisters shopping. My older brother was at a basketball game.The only people in the house were me and my older sister Wendy; andbecause she was still asleep, I was the only one who saw the most peculiar of vehicles pulling up in front of our house: a huge Greyhound bus.

Ours was a quiet suburban street in McLean, Virginia, many milesfrom the nearest bus stop. But even more unusual than the bus was thebehavior of the dozens of people who poured out of it. I watched withwide-eyed curiosity as they began pacing the sidewalk in front of ourhouse. They seemed to be chanting something, but exactly what Iwasn’t sure. Determined to figure out what was happening, I wentoutside, which made it easier for me to see and hear what they weresaying. Their chant was simple and consistent with the words writtenon the signs they were carrying: “Keep your laws off our bodies!”

Immediately, mischievous thoughts flowed through my eleven-year-old mind. Should I turn on the sprinklers? I wondered. Should Ideploy my secret stash of firecrackers? Like the boy in Home Alone, I instinctively felt the need to defend my parents’ home, and startlingthese protesters sounded like an awfully fun way to do it.

Fortunately, I was (barely) mature enough to resist my first instincts. If I do that, it’ll be on the news, I thought. That will end up causing problems for my dad, and I don’t want to do that.

Instead, I decided to calmly approach and speak to the strangerswho had arrived without invitation or warning on our sidewalk. Ifound the woman who appeared to be in charge and said, “I live inthis house. Can you tell me why you’re here?”

“Well, little boy,” she said in the most condescending way imaginable, “we’re not here to hurt you. We just really disagree with someof the things that your daddy is doing in his job.”

It can be a little jarring when the first thing people tell you is thatthey don’t mean you any harm. That’s sometimes the first indicationthat the opposite is true.

In this case, I knew enough about my dad’s job and the abortiondebate to realize they were angry about arguments he had presentedto the Supreme Court. I later learned that the case was City of Akronv. Akron Center for Reproductive Health, a case involving the constitutionality of a city ordinance requiring second- and third-trimesterabortions to be performed in hospitals and requiring minors to obtain either parental or judicial consent before obtaining an abortion.Appearing on behalf of the U.S. government (as amicus curiae or“friend of the court”), my father argued that, in adjudicating suchconstitutional questions, the Supreme Court should give due defer-ence to states and local legislative bodies, especially where fact-ladenquestions of public policy are concerned. But that still didn’t explainwhy these people were in front of my house.

“That’s fine,” I said, “but why do you have to do it here? Why doyou have to do it in my front yard?” After all, their signs said, “Keepyour laws off our bodies.” Was it too much to ask them to keep theirbodies off our lawn?

Apparently it was. She told me, “We’re being very careful not tostep on your grass. I’m sure that you have lots of fun playing withyour friends out here. We’re just staying on the sidewalk.”

Boy, I thought to myself, she is really missing my point. I wasn’tconcerned about the grass. My concern went beyond the technicaldistinction between private property and public easements. I hadmeant to make a fairly obvious point: You can disagree with people,but that doesn’t mean you should go where they sleep and eat andraise children, attempting to subject them and their families to public shame, scorn, and humiliation.

After a while, a concerned neighbor found me and asked, “Hey,are you okay? Are you scared?”

But as soon as he saw the smile on my face, he knew I was justfine. I loved discussing important questions of public policy, and myusual sparring partners at the dinner table were a lot tougher to de-bate than the obtuse protester on my sidewalk. While I was a littlestartled, I was having the time of my life.

For the next two hours, men, women, and even a few children—apparently oblivious to the irony, they had brought children to anabortion-rights protest—marched up and down our sidewalk, always careful not to step on the grass. A news crew came and went.Neighbors gawked inquisitively from time to time, but the wholeaffair didn’t seem to hold anyone’s attention very long—includingthat of the protesters themselves. The sign-wielding activists whosevoices became so familiar to me that day eventually grew tired ofwaiting for their much-anticipated, face-to-face confrontation withmy father, who was still running errands with my mom and mythree younger sisters. With disappointment showing on their faces,they climbed back into their bus and called it a day.

Within seconds after they left, my parents pulled into the drive-way. In a stroke of bad luck for the protesters—who had traveled allthe way from New York and New Jersey to criticize my father—theyhad missed him by less than two minutes.

I was standing next to the basketball goal at the end of our drive-way, chomping at the bit to tell my parents about all the excitementthey’d missed. But before I could get out a word, my dad beat me tothe punch. “There was a huge Greyhound bus going out of theneighborhood,” he said with a baffled look on his face. “Do youknow anything about that?”

Although I disagree with the message of those protesters and believethey should have found a more appropriate place to march than theprivate residence of a public official, I admire their passion. At leastthey cared about the Constitution and the essential role it plays inlimiting the power of government. At least they were willing to viewgovernment action with a critical eye, refusing to ignore what theyperceived as a constitutional overreach. I wish more Americans—even those who read the Constitution differently than I do—sharedtheir passion for identifying and enforcing constitutional limits onthe power of government.

I wrote this book for people who share my lifelong love of theConstitution and my growing frustration with legislators, judges,and presidents who ignore and distort it. In one sense, this is a bookabout heroes and villains—those who inspired, crafted, and re-spected liberty’s safeguards and those who have tried to tear thosesafeguards down. But in another sense, this is a book with a mes-sage: The “Lost Constitution” should be restored, and it can be, butonly if we remember the people and the stories behind it.

My wish for you is that you share your time not with me but withthem.