Saturday, February 20, 2010

Shop of Horrors

Let's say you need some brown boots. You bought a black pair about three years ago, but it has been at least eight years since you even thought about brown ones. You have no idea what is in style, what is out there or what you even want. You know you can't wear the stilettos that you have seen on people in the street. Are there even a short heeled boot being made now days?

So you put boots into the search bar on your computer hoping to be taken to the most viewed boots across the world. But you mistype and accidentally type boobs.

It takes about fifteen seconds for the message to reach your brain that you are not looking at boots. But before you can reach up and slam the cover of your lap top down, the damage has been done.

You sit shaking. Your heart is pounding in your chest and you feel sick to your stomach. You have lived nearly forty years without having these kind of images in your head. You feel violated, dirty, like a child waiting for your dad to get home after you have done something really wrong.

And then you feel sad. Who are these people? Who takes photos like these? Who poses for them? Who looks at them? You feel a sorrow in the depths of your soul for the world in which you live, for the depravity, for the loss of innocence, for the perversion of love and beauty.

And then your sorrow turns into a simmering anger that quickly moves to a boiling rage. How dare they? Whoever they are. How dare they make it so easy to come across such filth. How dare they come into my home, my mind, my heart.

And then you snap into protective mode. My children use this computer. You research blockers and software and hardware. And then you sink into depression and defeat. You can not win. There are phones and hand helds and wi with internet access. It wasn't a pop up or a selection from a set of choices. It was there on your screen because of one mistyped letter.

It is too big. It is too evil. You can not fight it.

You recommit yourself to raising children of character, forming their consciences, heightening their defenses and awareness.

And then you fall down on your knees and pray: For the people in that industry, for the people addicted to such things, for the innocent people who are damaged by mistake, for the children, for your children.

And then you cry for your own loss of innocence. And then you pray again that this heavy feeling of evil will be lifted and you can become childlike again.

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