Saturday, December 29, 2007

Thursday, my routine mail check produced a Victoria’s Secret magazine—still coming to us though we’ve tried and tried to shake them. I smuggled it into my bedroom, out of sight of the men in the family and stuffed it into my trashcan to await an opportune moment for me to send it to a fiery end. Today, I dug it out to wreck my vengeance on it. It all began when I ordered something for my sister-in-law, and checked the "Do not send me e-mail or magazines" option. Magazines began arriving a short time later, anyway. I called, demanding that they stop sending the advertisements. We moved, and again they found us.

Viciously I ripped the offending magazine to shreds. Why did they have to make this kind of “soft-core” pornography, anyway, and slip it into our homes under the pretense of selling us ladies’ items? There’s no doubt in my mind what the true purpose of such marketing can be. Are we marketing lingerie or women’s bodies? A woman can evaluate lingerie just as well on a manikin. There's no special appeal to her through the sexy poses. How many men and boys pick up a Victoria’s Secret magazine, never to buy a bra or bikini, but to be forever ensnared by the demons who inspire pornography? Overwhelmed by the truth of this marketing scheme, I fed the shreds to a dying fire, crying from sorrow and smoke. With the ashes of ruined women before me I vowed never to order from Victoria's Secret again.

After finishing the day’s work, I found myself flying down the woodland trail Josiah and I built. Out of condition, I was surprised to find myself not out of breath. In spite of jeans, work boots and a denim jacket I ran full out, nearly sprinting for over half a mile, until I came to the clearing and spied Josiah hunched over his Bible. Quickly I turned around and returned home.

I hold in my hand a note signed “The Sinner”--as if there were only one. It is an apology, simple, straightforward and humble and I know who the author is, in spite of the apparent anonymity. At this moment, with tears chasing each other down my cheeks, I am overwhelmed by one simple truth: I am equally worthy of the signature. How could I deserve an apology?

Lord, if I am grieved by sin
How more art Thou, so pure within?
And if a sin fills me with sorrow,
How much more must be Thy horror?

A miracle it is that I,
Who caused Thy perfect Son to die,
Should by His death be so forgiven
As to dwell with Thee in heaven.

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