When was the first time you saw fireflies? As I’m sure I gave away in asking, I’m not from the South, and in California we had neither fireflies nor lightning bugs. I was about ten years old when I left the state for the first time, flying to Maryland to visit my grandparents. I recall little of their house, although I do remember my puzzlement at a strange game called “bridge.” What I can remember were the broad green fields scattered with beautiful abundance across the town. My brothers and I spent hours watching for rabbits, running for the sake of running, and of course, catching fireflies.

These reminiscences tumbled into my head tonight as I took out the trash. I moved to Tennessee from California eight years ago, almost to the day. It was during that first summer I was reminded that fireflies don’t actually shine at night. Instead, they glint and glimmer during that ephemeral hour that’s neither day nor night. For the ancient Jews, it was not just the end of daytime, it was the end of the day, in accordance with the reverent mantra of Genesis 1: And there was evening and there was morning, the first day.

I attended The Gospel Coalition’s 2024 women’s conference this last weekend.* Five friends and I piled into a minivan and drove up to Indianapolis for three days of all the pastel, flower-covered spiritual food we could eat. I’ve spent the 24 hours since returning to my dark, quiet house decompressing. My head and heart are stuffed with so many images and words; I watched panel discussions that were great and some that lacked, and all of the keynote speakers were fantastic. Still, when I stuff all of that into one of the many free tote bags I brought back and shake it all together, only two words fall out. Dangerous light.

As regular readers know, I have been co-leading a Bible study at church with my mom for about five years. We pick a book of the Bible and study it inductively, then meet together for a discussion and some sort of teaching time. The overwhelming majority of our studies have been taught by Jen Wilkin, through her various videos and podcasts. Thrillingly, I had the privilege of hearing her speak at the conference, where she delivered a keynote address on John 8:12-30, in which Jesus declares himself the light of the world.

What do you think of when you hear Jesus, the light of the world? Maybe it’s because I listen to Christmas music year-round that my mind conjures up images of colored lights and tender manger scenes. Having studied the book of Matthew recently (again, thank you, Jen Wilkin), I also think of a city on a hill shining like a beacon in the surrounding lands. The latter of my hazy mind pictures surely captures the weight of Jesus’ declaration better than the former, but those airbrushed pictures of the soft, inviting light of Jesus fell and shattered at the words Jen had to say that night.

“It’s only in recent human history,” she said, “that light was a simple matter to achieve.” Without iPhones or electricity – without fireflies, even – the only way to chase away the night was by fire. “Dangerous light,” she called it. Dangerous light. Three and a half years ago, I christened this blog Before the Fire. From all the beauty, terror, glory, and love painted by God into the piece of art we call the Bible, the image that has always “shaken out” first for me is Moses, on his face before the holy fire of God himself. Dangerous light, indeed.

Where is this all going? I don’t know. I have had what I guess you’d call writer’s block for over six months. I say “I guess” you’d call it that because I don’t write for a living and I don’t impose any sort of deadlines or quotas on myself. Still, over the last six months, a little knot of worry at the back of my head has grown more and more insistent. See, I don’t usually just sit down, open a new document, and decide to write something. I have the luxury of being able to wait until I feel a tug on my soul – the Holy Spirit telling me he has something I need to hear. This tug has been absent for months. I’ve even sat down in front of my computer and tried to summon some inspiration. Unsurprisingly, that failed.

It was last Thursday night, night one of the conference, that I felt the block lift – an almost physical feeling of a barrier tearing. My heart suddenly had ears to hear. I wasn’t writing at that moment, but I suddenly felt assured I could. Later, I found a quiet corner of the convention hall and began scratching notes onto the small pages of my notebook. Eventually the rush faded, the conference ended, and the six of us (plus considerably more books than we arrived with) dragged ourselves back into the minivan and home to Tennessee. We arrived at our darkened church building after an eight hour drive, just as the day’s light began to fade.

As I drove home, the burgeoning darkness began to leak into the magic of the previous few days. I felt inspiration slipping through my fingers. Arriving home, I rushed to transcribe most of my notes, perched on a chair in front of my glowing computer screen, surrounded by darkness and silence.

Today, too exhausted to go to church, I’ve mostly just sorted through the pile of books, pamphlets, stickers, journals, and free pens I accumulated over the last few days (along with one lone pen cap that somehow ended up in my bag). I sat around and reassured my cats I wouldn’t abandon them forever again. Then, grumbling like I do every Sunday night, I went outside to drag the trash can to the curb for Monday pickup.

I wasn’t wearing my glasses as I rolled the can toward the street, mulling over all of the above, so the fireflies looked even more ethereal than usual. Soft, gentle, magical light. Until, that is, a giant whirring insect follows you into the house, looking nothing like a twinkle on a string of Christmas lights.

Dangerous light. Ever glimmering, ever dark, the world is changing, yet the world is the same. The nations rage and the kingdoms totter; God utters his voice, the earth melts.

I have no conclusion. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow, maybe not. But something is in the air. I can almost hear C.S. Lewis calling, “Aslan is on the move.”

And Moses said, “I will turn aside to see this great sight, why the bush is not burned.” When the LORD saw that he turned aside to see, God called to him out of the bush, “Moses, Moses!” And he said, “Here I am.”

Exodus 3:3-4

Hineni, hineni

I’m ready, my Lord

You Want It Darker, Leonard Cohen

*written June 24, 2024