or the sandbox, horrified at their son’s or daughter’s unsanitary
sense of curiosity.
I know I’m not your mama. But I do think of you as a friend.
And when it comes to the enemy’s specific, strategic, most
enticing temptations against you and against your purity, I
hope you’ll imagine me as a blur coming up fast in your
peripheral vision, calling out to you with an urgent voice, both
arms waving wildly, “DON’T! TOUCH! THAT!”... because
both of us know exactly where’s it’s been.
That enticing temptation that tickles your curiosity, piques
your interest, and placates your personal proclivities has been
festering in the devil’s sick, sinister mind all morning, all week,
all year maybe. Just sitting there, soaking up vileness and filth.
Cruelty and conspiracy. Waiting for the right time—the moment
when you are most weakened and susceptible to attack. But
once he’s cleaned it up for presentation, sliding it meticulously
into view, you’d think it was the shiniest, most desirable bit of
unclaimed satisfaction you’ve ever seen. He sets it out there
where your eyes can’t help but be drawn toward it—at least,
you know, to pick it up and look at it. Feel it. Play with it.