It's a fact of life, this urge to letter-write; less than a duty, more than a calling; or maybe just a fancy that, like pulling weeds in a garden, inconvenient acts might change the world one sacrifice at a time. OCD? Insanity? Instability? To believe you can change the world one weed at a time? One un-read letter at a time?
Pulling weeds used to be drudgery, but now, in spite of knowing twelve more will just pop up when I'm finished, I nevertheless find it satisfying. And, while I used to get all formal with high end stationery to write my diatribes, post it notes will suffice these days. Twelve more weeds just sprouted? Whatever. My letter gets trashed for looking unprofessional? Whatever. It's the hope that prevails: Do what you can, and leave the results to God.
So, I add prayer to my zeal, and that gives me hope that, like with Wilberforce's life-long dream of ousting slavery from England, God might have mercy on this century; this country; this people. Imagine. He might well inaugurate a return to 1940's dignity, swim suits that don't require one to shave her privates, and underwear worn as outerwear no longer.
They used to call such inaugurations "revivals." I like Wilberforce's terminolgoy: a restoration of manners and civility. Whatever you call it, it all starts with a supernatural return to a Christ-centric notion of modesty for His sake; identity in His image. And a well weeded garden.
I can dream.
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PS: This morning's first assignment confirmed The Call. DH pushes the newly subscribed-to morning paper over to my side of the breakfast bar and says, "here's your next letter..." It was a block of massage parlor ads. While more tasteful than the demonic Beachcomber strip club layouts, I still winced. Legal massage parlors adverising, not sex, but "exotic ecstasy with 8 young asian girls..."
I am not a journalist. I'll need to pray for one to come along...
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