You might not have a second chance.

Again.

It still feels like a dream, that day— it was a Sunday; the air was hot and stagnant. Words will fail me as I try to describe this so permit me to paint pictures in your mind—

There he was lying lifeless upon my rug. There was no blood, there was no weapon—but he lay there, lifeless—dead.

My heart felt like a burden, a very heavy one. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe properly. The room seemed darker, as though a shadowed entity visited. A part of me feels guilty for not shedding even a tear for him, for it was customary to do so for people whom we dearly cherished— love.

I loved him. I loved him so much, he was different; the way he smiled, the way he cried and also the way he loved. Conceivably his death was a result of his difference, or maybe what he loved the most claimed him.

But I'm tired, really I am— am I expected to write about stuff like this always? Or is there a part of “we” that loves to hear about death and grief? Or maybe this will make sense in the end.

I'm tired of writing deep things and I'm sorry for leading you on with that story— but, let's talk about something different. Hopefully, I don't make this deep.

First of all, I want to talk about Children—infants.

I recently joined a Sunday school as a volunteer teacher—I love Children. I remember that Sunday, it was about 8:57 AM or so when I stepped into the children's church. It was noisy, and it smelled like cold noodles and spilt tea—

“Children, come and meet your new uncle” This lady mouthed as a herd of children ambushed me— I almost cried guys, children are so beautiful, and this has nothing to do with appearance but everything to do with their souls.

“Welcome, Uncle.” They said, I was trying my best to reel it in when this boy hugged me— I stared at him, I saw the sincerity behind and in the hug. His parents taught him the act of welcoming someone not only with words, but also with the mercy of a hug—so glorious.

I went on to ask all these children their names, and they told me—Do I remember? No. Will I act like I still remember their names next Sunday? Yes.

I have always loved to idea of giving kids what I myself didn't get as a child— telling them what I wished I was told as a kid. So even as I stood here I considered how being a teacher who teaches children is the “hardest” and most delicate job one could ever get—

You are forming them, they are absorbing you. They are watching how you interact with other adults, and their heart is trying to steal your mannerisms— woe be tied thee if your mannerisms are not pure.

I walked up to the boy who hugged me, he held to his chest this colourful children’s Bible—I mouthed gently to him “Do you understand what you are reading?” he said yes. This Child was reading through the book of Isaiah—

Isaiah 57 I think, or was it 43? I dunno— I sat beside him and I asked him if he had read Isaiah 53, he said yes— but we read it together, and we saw Jesus together— It was so lovely being with that child.

I fear what this time and age is doing to children—the enemy's agenda is still the same; kill, steal and destroy—and he is doing it to this generation of children. Starting with complacent parents who think loving is a child is merely paying their fees and buying them whatever they want—

Parents whose love has waxed cold raise children up in a cold world that demands that your love burns brightly, if not you die— so these children delight better in their iPads and see going to the word as a drag.

It is no news that our children are becoming very familiar with sexual content, so familiar that I fear what is happening— recently Netflix outed a mini series called FOREVER, I was vexed seeing the picture the world was painting for teenagers in this series—a life where you needed to be in a relationship to discern your life was complete, a life where teenage adultery was a right thing.

And I see all these wrapped up in one statement “You are young and you have to live well before you die”—

And I think to myself, what is living before you die? Is it debauchery? Is it adultery? Is it disobedience?— The world is training kids these days to go against the word of God, and the anchor of this is their feelings—

There might not be a second chance—repent now as you read this, preach now— Fight for purity now, there might not be a second chance. Flee from manipulation now! Remember that God’s kindness is meant to lead you into repentance—

Did I make this letter deep? Oh God! I betrayed myself.

But this letter is for you, my friend. From whatever part of the world you are reading this from— do not stop fighting for purity, you are not a loser—fight! Fight! Fight!

Guard your heart fiercely! Say no to things and people that want to corrupt your heart so dearly— Master saying “No, I won't watch this because it is anti-Christ” this might sound cheesy and “too much” to some people but yes, still do it.

Maybe this letter isn't really about Children, maybe it is about you and your heart once again— that weary heart of yours that has lost the battle once again, and wants to give up fighting.

Maybe if I were to conclude with the story I started with I would say; the body I saw on the floor was mine, the body that was without its life— I killed my flesh, I died that very moment. The body I was beholding was my flesh fading away, if it be so then permit me to ask—have you died today?

Or are you too weak to?