Plant a flower, shampoo carpets, pray that heaven's mercy falls.

ONE: An early morning walk, alone. Cool, crisp air so pure, fingers freezing I dig my hands into my jacket pockets, so glad I wore sweats, a sweatshirt and a coat.  The sound of the creek below, clean cold water rushing.  I looked up and saw three middle-school boys on the corner, waiting for the bus.  One, who I recognized, busy with his phone, thumbs rapidly relating to the world.

As I crossed the street, she approached. A girl, probably thirteen, looking twenty-five. She wore a tank-top with plunging neckline and leggings: Like, the kind you wear under a skirt, but without the skirt. Just a tanktop and skin-tight leggings. Her face was made-up, long hair swinging as she walked, hips swaying. As we passed on the street the soft scent of her perfume swept over me as she made her way over to wait for the bus. Oh dear Lord help those boys. When I was back on the path and hidden safely behind a bush, I glanced back over to watch the scene play out.  A common theme had woven throughout my week and this was my chance to see it in real time.

The boy I knew, bless his heart, glanced up and I could read his mind–then he quickly looked down and stared hard at his phone. Bless you, boy. The other boys had no defense. Two made a valiant effort to divert their eyes but one poor boy just sat and gawked, mouth open, in a trance.

I was close, this close, to going over, taking dear sweet pea by the hand and walking her back home so her mama could give her a coat … and a skirt. I didn’t. I should’ve. But I prayed for those boys and for her and for the world of middle schoolers and for my kids–all growing up in this sad sexed-up society.

TWO: Earlier this week Jeff forwarded me a disturbing article. I won’t link directly here, but if you are interested I’m happy to send it to you.  I read through every word, and wept.

The article was Porn and Junior-High Culture, published as part of the Drowning in Porn feature of New York magazine. The gist of the article was that online porn is so widely available and accessed among junior high (and high school) boys that junior high girls are posing for similar pics, sexting and texting and trying to “keep up” with the distorted desire of their male classmates. The five junior-high girls interviewed admitted that it’s hard to “keep up” with the image that boys have in their mind, not to mention the assorted “activities” these boys demand that they do.

I read and cried, read and cried.

These are our boys, poisoned with filth from the pit of hell. Warped, addicted, ruined, dazed and overwhelmed by the onslaught of sexuality before they are even old enough to drive a girl to the movies.

These are our girls, with mutilated souls, believing that some digital fantasy pic is what they have to “measure up” to. Trying, aching, longing to be prettier and thinner and sexier and perkier.

Made old before they even have grown up.

THREE: Then at the end of the week I met with a 16-year-old friend. She is dear and I love her like a daughter.

And everything I suspected was true. It’s as bad as I thought.

I said goodbye, closed the door. Sat on the couch. Shook my head, cried. What’s the use, God? This world is gone. It’s so warped and messed up and hopeless. What’s the USE?

I walked to the sink. Two packets of seeds sat on the counter, waiting to be planted. What’s the point, God? I put my hands through the motions, spooned soil into egg cartons, tore open packets, and just as I began to finger tiny seeds into soil, the packet slipped and fell out of my hand. Most the seeds down the drain. I stood still, hands resting on the edge of the sink, looking down. The seeds and our world. What’s the point, God? Almost all of them are already gone down the drain. My heart quickened as I looked back down into the packet.

Just a few left.

That’s the point, Kari.

There’s a few left.

My eyes filled up as I poked my finger down by faith into the packet, pulled up the few last seeds, gently pushed them into soil. Covered tenderly. Watered. Covered with a plastic bag and slid up into the warmth on top of the fridge.

With care those few would grow. Would live.

With care seek out those few who will grow. Will live.

What else, Lord?

I looked down at the carpet in desperate need. Pulled out the steam-cleaner. While Jeff tucked kiddos into bed I steam-cleaned to save lives. Over and over down the hall, each time brought water black. Dump water. Do it again. So dirty. So much filth. So much work.

It was worth it.

I finished late. Was tired. The carpet looked like new. I fell into bed, exhausted, and told my man my heart.

And prayed that heaven’s mercy fall.

Our world is dark, no lie. The curse is alive and well as we exploit each other’s weaknesses.

But this morning I pulled the egg cartons down from the top of the fridge:

A dozen tiny shoots, two dozen tiny green leaves.

Shoots of hope.

Keep planting, shampooing, and praying. Thanks for reading.