I Don't Want to be a Centipede

Screwtape and Wormwood have been my book companions recently. The demonic uncle/nephew duo created in the unmatchable mind of C.S. Lewis amuse and teach me even as I read it for the second time. After being ratted out by his nephew, Wormwood, and other blunders, Uncle Screwtape is livid and writing in a rage but he needs to dictate the end of the letter to Toadpipe. Why? In his own words,

"In the heat of composition I find that I have inadvertently allowed myself to assume the form of a large centipede."

My imagination is so active that I can actually see the mutation happen and even relate to the image. There are days when I feel like a creepy crawler. My attitude is putrid and my mood is dour. I get so ugly and crusty that I'm surprised when others don't withdraw with disgust or crush my crustacean shell with the nub of their heal.

When I feel the little legs begin to protrude and sense the morphing coming on, I crawl into my corner for the better of everyone. Alone, away from others, free of their noise, I am able to shed my skin and nurture my soft side back to life in the presence of Jesus. I don't want to be a centipede, but when it happens, I need to skitter away to another room. It's for the best. Really. And besides, I really don't want to get stepped on.