The Gifts That Speak
I. The Parable of the Gate and the Gift
In a time before memory, there was a walled city nestled in the mountains. The people were wise, and their children many. Their gates were strong, their walls thick, and their hearts proud. For they remembered the old stories.
One morning, a strange wagon appeared outside the gate. No man pulled it, and no beast of burden. It stood still, humming quietly. Upon it sat a single object: a toy. Painted, polished, singing soft melodies when touched. It sparkled in the sun, and whispered names when cradled.
The children gathered first, then the curious. No one knew who had sent it.
The elders frowned. “This is not of our making.”
But the children pleaded. “Please, just one toy. One story. One gift.”
One mother said, “It looks harmless.”
One father said, “Perhaps it is a sign of peace.”
One old soldier growled, “It is not the gift you must fear. It is the story inside.”
But the gate was opened.
That night, the children slept with the toy beneath their pillows. In dreams, they saw visions: fathers as fools, mothers as burdens, the city as a prison. They woke restless, hungering for more.
The next day, another wagon came. This one carried a dozen toys. Dolls that sang lullabies in a new tongue. Masks that changed faces. Books that told new myths.
No guards stopped it. The gates remained open.
By the end of the month, the city was full of wagons. The old songs were forgotten. The children no longer asked their elders for stories. They had new ones now.
And when the final gatekeeper died, the children barely noticed. The gifts had taught them well.
II. Story Is Software
Stories are not entertainment. They are not filler. They are not harmless.
A story is a soul-script. A ritual in disguise. A behavioral payload encoded in rhythm and symbol.
The ancients knew this. That is why they guarded the myths. That is why initiation was required before revelation. That is why some stories could only be told around the fire, under oath, after trials.
Today, the gate is open. There is no oath. There is no trial. There is only endless, frictionless input. And every story—every cartoon, every game, every branded trinket—is installing software.
We think we’re handing over a screen. We are handing over a worldview.
The child does not merely watch. He is formed.
And the enemy knows it.
He no longer comes with swords. He comes with lullabies. With jokes. With songs that hum in the background while the parent cooks dinner.
The serpent did not strike Eve with a weapon. He struck her with a story:
“You will not surely die.”
The first viral myth. The first gift that spoke.
And it worked.
III. The Great Mistake of Modern Parents
Today’s parent believes he can remain neutral. That the answer is moderation. That “a little bit won’t hurt.”
But poison coded in story doesn’t dilute—it replicates.
The enemy does not fear your rules. He does not fear your screen time limits. He does not fear your internet filters.
He fears your formation.
Because you are not just the provider of resources—you are the shaper of souls.
Every time you say:
- “It’s just a show.”
- “At least they’re quiet.”
- “I watched stuff like this too.”
You are abdicating your role as the gatekeeper. And the enemy is building his kingdom in your absence.
IV. The Old Way Must Return
There was a time when fathers were storytellers. When mothers sang the truths of heaven. When the hearth was a liturgy, and the book was a sword.
There was a time when dragons were not pets but beasts to be slain. When kings were not mocked but honored. When the difference between good and evil was not shaded in gray, but burned into the soul with fire.
Old stories did not avoid death. They explained it.
Old stories did not avoid sin. They named it.
Old stories did not obscure the good. They glorified it.
And they formed generations who, while imperfect, knew who they were.
Today, we give our children amnesia. And wonder why they are anxious.
We give them distraction. And wonder why they are lost.
We hand them disordered myth. And wonder why they despise the good.
V. Your Charge
You are the gatekeeper. You are the watchman. You are the voice before the fire.
If the enemy has turned to stories, then you must become a storyteller. If they speak lies in lullabies, then you must counter with truth wrapped in wonder. If the wagons roll to your gates, you must teach your children to recognize the tongue inside the gift.
You will not win this war with tech settings. You will not win with content warnings.
You will win by forming their loves. By giving them myths worth living for. By speaking gifts that do not lie.
The world will give your children stories for free. But only you can give them ones worth dying for.
Do not leave the gate unguarded. Do not let the gift speak alone. Tell the better story.