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Candlelight Gasps

Dana @ Pen and FireLeave a comment

In the darkness, eternities flicker,
flaring, fading, in candlelight gasps,
until You breathed our dust to life
and bent infinity into the cords of time.

In the silence, every clock thunders,
the taunt of mortality’s countdown,
breaking our marriage to earthly things
and making alike the beggars and kings.

In the judgment, empty treasures burn
before the face of a holy blaze,
so teach us, o God, to number our days
for all that’s worthless will be swept away.

A brief meditation on Psalm 90. 

Stories for Our Souls

Dana @ Pen and Fire1 Comment

stories, paris, france, inspiration

We live in a world of extreme sensory overload and nonstop schedules. Did you scroll through this post and decide it was too long of a read? I hope not, because it isn’t that long. Or maybe you just read the bolded, numbered items. Thanks for making my point – I hope you stay and read this now.

With social media, video games and TV shows on top of our life responsibilities, I think many of us lose sight of the value of good, old-fashioned reading. Remember books? Those things with paper and ink and grand stories? I encounter a lot of people who say, “I don’t have time to read.” But yes, you do! How much time do you spend on Facebook, or playing computer games? I’m not saying that those are bad things, or that you should assume a monkish lifestyle in a cave with only a library for company (as much as I love books, I’d die too). But there is time. If you make it a priority.

I have 4 simple reasons why I think we need to dust off our bookshelves and reclaim the art of reading. These aren’t coming from a highbrow literary scholar or a cynic scoffing at a generation of digital junkies. Yours truly is just an ordinary reader who finds a spark of magic beneath well-told tales and wants to share.

  1. It gets us inside other people’s heads

Well, that sounds creepy. But I mean it. Reading is one of the best mediums for getting inside people’s heads. Even when the story and characters are fictional, the thoughts and emotions reflect a piece of the author’s own mind. Ernest Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” A good author pours himself into his writing.

There is something thrilling and challenging in gaining access to such a full spectrum of intimate thought. It broadens our perspective. Growing up, my worldview was largely shaped by my family, friends and teachers – the people around me who spoke into my life. And it was shaped by books. We are not God, and we do not create ex nihilo, or out of nothing, in matter or in ideas. We are taught, molded by others, and even geniuses stand on the shoulders of giants. Books opened up my eyes to a richer and wider range of thoughts from people of vastly different cultures, eras and lifestyles. It challenges us too. What is in the mind of an adulterer? A murderer? A man single-mindedly bent on vengeance? As a Christian, I want to read with discernment and avoid garbage. But I don’t think we should shy away from the gritty realities of our fallen world. If nothing else, you will understand more deeply the depravity of man, and you may be forced to examine yourself as well, because we all have the capacity to fall far and hard, if not for the grace of God.

  1. It cultivates compassion

I was as selfish a child as they come and I had little tolerance for the shortcomings of others (I’m still working on this). Literature taught me to love flawed people, because all good characters are flawed. Of course, I don’t give all the credit to books – there was the selfless example of my parents, good friends and mentors I was blessed with, and above all, the grace of God. But I will say books taught me a great deal about loving the unlovable. Partly because I got into their heads and saw they weren’t all that unlovable once you understood them (few people are villains just for villainy’s sake) and partly because they held up a mirror to my own heart.

  1. It inspires us

Do you remember how Sam carried Frodo up Mount Doom when he just couldn’t make it himself? When we close a great book, we are awed that the world is still going on the way it was before when everything has changed. Simply because we have this new story living inside of us. Stories inspire us – not just to nod, assent that it was good, and move on – but they inspire us to action. We won’t all get to save our friend’s life behind enemy lines and run a blade through the monsters, but there are little things that make a difference. Be faithful where you are. Reach out a hand when you see a need. And you never know, greatness may be thrust upon you one day.

Sam was just a gardener before he was a hero.

  1. It teaches us about the Gospel

All good stories, though fictional, are echoes and dim reflections of the one Great Story. They are imperfect, because they are written by imperfect people, but they echo the themes of sacrificial love, the brokenness of sin, redemption, the ultimate triumph of good. I love reading quality fantasy. The worlds and people may not exist, but fantasy often echoes the truest themes loudest of all. It magnifies the things of the human heart that our daily lives minimize – the battle to do what is right, the value of loyalty and friendship – to an epic and grand scale. Like C.S. Lewis says in The Weight of Glory, it shows us a clearer picture of who humans really are: eternal souls that will either be glorified or damned.

Stories make me shun existentialist philosophies. They show me there is more to live for than man-made ideals and that our hearts are pressed with purpose and a desire for nobler things. We are stamped with the image of divinity, created for eternity, drawn to redemption, made for glory.

So tolle lege! Take up and read.

Books Worth Reading: Axes for Our Frozen Seas

Dana @ Pen and Fire2 Comments
Books, Book Recommendations, Library
photo cred

The “10 Books” Challenge has been making its rounds on social media, and I recently took part. But for someone who loves to read, pasting a list of (just) 10 books with no explanation is decidedly unsatisfying. So I created this, partly to indulge myself, partly to benefit you. I don’t know about you, but I find myself wanting to read extremely different genres depending on my strange and colorful spectrum of moods. If you’re looking for a good read of a specific nature, maybe something here will suit your fancy. Or you can tuck this away for future reference. Or you can skim my list, scoff, and move on with your life. But don’t tell me if you go with option 3.

The categories are relatively loose, and I defined them mostly after choosing the books. So don’t take the structure too seriously. There is a wide, wide range here. I can almost guarantee you won’t like every book – because you aren’t me. But I found something worthwhile in every single one, whether it was life changing, magnificently written, or simply a very good time. (My private, and secondary, ambition was that everyone would find at least one book on the list that they: have never heard of, are also totally enamored with, are severely opposed to, would add to their to-read list. Did I succeed?)

This isn’t a list of books you “must read before you die.” I don’t feel qualified to make one of those. But I will stand behind this as a list of worthy reads.

Tell me what you think. And what’s on your list?

  

For Your Soul

Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis: Lewis holds up bravely in the face of existential and post-modern philosophies.

The Gospel According to Jesus, John MacArthur: Cut the sugarcoating. MacArthur will bring you face to face with the Jesus who said, deny yourself, take up your cross and follow Me.

Heaven, Randy Alcorn: If you’re skeptical about this, so was I. But Alcorn is biblical, thoughtful, informative and enthusiastic about eternity in a contagious way.

The Truth of the Cross, R.C. Sproul: Sproul brings home the fullness, significance and depth of the cross. Appreciate grace all over again.

Saved in Eternity, Martyn Lloyd-Jones: Lloyd-Jones is an unparalleled expositor of Scripture – watch him tackle John 17, the High Priestly Prayer.

Outta This World

The Lord of the Rings, J.R.R. Tolkien: If you can’t make it through the entire series – I get it. But if you do, I hope you understand why Peter Beagle calls Tolkien the colonizer of dreams. 

The Chronicles of Narnia, C.S. Lewis: Don’t be like Eustace; read the right sort of books. Like these.

The Giver, Lois Lowry: What makes us human? Lowry paints a world that is almost seductive yet terrifying.

Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Matthew Stover: You would never guess that this brilliant, sweeping tragedy rose out of the ashes of that less-than-mediocre movie. I’d venture to say: not just for diehard fans (but I sort of was one, so take it with a grain of salt).

Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis: It’s weird, but profound. It’s haunting and Lewis touches something deep in us.

Rollicking, Good Adventures

The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexander Dumas: This is a crazy thrilling ride. It’s not lacking in depth either.

The Scarlet Pimpernel, Emmuska Orczy: It’s like Batman during the French Revolution, sans Christopher Nolan’s dark makeover.

Mark of the Lion, Francine Rivers: Its historical Christian fiction and it comes with some common flaws of the genre. But on the whole, it’s a grand story that’ll take you back to the heyday of Rome and, I daresay, inspire you with its conviction and courage.

Howl’s Moving Castle, Diana Wynne Jones: Characters with quirk, wit, and warmth. The story is also tons of fun.

Watership Down, Richard Adams: Yes, it’s about rabbits, but it’s a better adventure story than many about humans.

Drama & Real Life

To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee: It’s a timeless ode to childhood and growing up wrapped in something noble.

The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini: He brings characters, in all their brokenness and feeble aspirations, to life. And I seriously envy his prose.

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen: She understood a woman’s heart even better than the way Taylor Swift understands girls today. Lest you think it’s just the predecessor to empty-headed rom coms, Austen has plenty of social insights, satire, and highbrow humor.

The Book Thief, Markus Zusak: It’s a simple story, but it will wrench your heart out.

The Hiding Place, Corrie Ten Boom: True story, and a good one at that, about courage, faith and compassion.

Throwbacks

Nancy Drew, Carolyn Keene: When I refer to my detective novels phase back in the day, this is all I really mean.

Doctor Doolittle, Hugh Lofting: I definitely preferred talking animals to talking humans.

Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Robert C. O’Brien: I have fond memories of this book. Writers have really done some magic with mice – Mrs. Frisby, Reepicheep, Hermux, Redwall… Yes, I wanted a pet one.

Cedar River Daydreams, Judy Baer: Warm and cozy books with an ensemble of lovable characters. Just remember to suspend your disbelief, because they’re not much like real high school kids.

The Chronicles of Prydain, Lloyd Alexander: Classic fantasy tropes based on Welsh mythology. The princess is named Eilonwy and there’s a magical pig. You should be sold.

 

“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.” – Franz Kafka

Twenty Seconds of Courage

Dana @ Pen and Fire2 Comments
the swing at the end of the world

How long is twenty seconds? In a conversation, a twenty second pause is ridiculously long, palm-sweating silence. When you’re counting down to a deadline, twenty seconds run away from you faster than a man hustling a mistress out the back door when his wife returns (sorry, I think I stole this reference from an obscure line in Suits).

My roommate and I watched We Bought a Zoo last night, and it was better than I expected. Nothing shockingly original or profound, but it was a sweet story. While most of it wasn’t terribly memorable, one line in particular caught my attention and flipped a switch in my head.

“Sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.” – Benjamin Mee

I bet we can all think of those moments—those times we mustered up that courage and did something outrageous. Or profoundly stupid. Those stories that still make us turn as red as a plum if they happened less than two years ago, but are the best stories we have to retell ten years down the road. And we can all think of the other moments—when we let the twenty seconds slip away, replacing them with a haunting what if that hangs over our heads.

Those are the big things. But it also got me to thinking: sometimes, it takes an insane amount of courage to do something small too. Because I don’t think anyone lives in a perpetual state of bravery. We’re all cowards sometimes. Or most the time. So I thought I’d come up with a brief list of things I—and you—could do with twenty seconds of courage. They’re not all big things, and something great may not always come of it, but I think they’re worthwhile.

  1. Make someone new feel welcome. Whether it’s at church or a party, there are always these huddles of people that stick together. Step outside your comfort zone and talk to someone new, or just someone who might be left out. Lay aside convenience and comfort. You might turn someone’s day around. You might make a lifelong friend.
  1. Hang out with someone very different from you. Maybe it’s background, beliefs, age, personality—someone you typically wouldn’t be friends with. Take the initiative and ask them to lunch or coffee. If they ask you, say yes. Learn something, and give them something to think about too.
  1. Share the Gospel with someone. You can go cold turkey, or you can finally open up with the friend you’ve never told. You probably can’t get it all in in twenty seconds, but it’s enough of a start that it would be more awkward to run away than just finish after that.
  1. Tell someone how much he or she means to you. You don’t have to wait until you’re writing Christmas cards, or until their birthday rolls around. Sometimes I think we do that because it feels safer. You and I are not promised tomorrow or our next breath. So go knock on their door or pick up the phone now. Or on October 12. Or on the most random date you can think of.
  1. Show genuine kindness to someone who hurt you. I guess I subconsciously ordered these by how close someone is to you—and it’s those who are closest who can hurt you the most. So swallow the perfect insult that’s poised on your tongue. Being nasty is easy, but you will regret cruelty. You won’t regret being too kind.

These aren’t things that will make headlines. They’re more in the vein of storing up treasures in heaven than here on earth. I realized all of the five points contain the word “someone.” Doing any of these things makes you more vulnerable for the benefit of someone else. Because courage and selflessness are two sides of the same coin: it is turning away from self and focusing on others.

How long is twenty seconds? Long enough to do something brave.

Home, Sweet Home

Dana @ Pen and FireLeave a comment

A grateful reflection.

Where good things linger,
like soap scents and long laughs,
and sad thoughts flee.
Where kindness warms the winter,
and love never quits on me.
There’s a shelter from my storms,
a shoulder for my tears,
and a lesson on the longing
for the Home I’ll come to
at the end of my pilgrim years.

 

Something From Home

Dana @ Pen and Fire4 Comments

I wrote this for Rachel‘s September Chatterbox challenge. On the topic of pears. I might have cheated a teensy whip, but I worked it in. With summer drawing to a close, this came about from a bucketful of themes swirling in my mind – autumn, nostalgia, the idea of home, standing on the brink of something…

 

Something From Home

The skies deepened into a marble maroon shade as dying specks of sunlight glinted off the fences. Summer was fast vanishing, swallowed up in the reddish-brown haze of autumn. Annie skated lightly along the damp grass, pulling her light windbreaker tight around her petite frame. The mild but sweet smell of peaches rode the tailwinds of the evening breeze and she sucked in a lungful of cool air.

A quiet shriek reached her ears as a small boy scampered by, almost bowling her over. Half a dozen children followed on his heels, yelling, as they made a beeline for the ice cream stand.

Stony Grounds Park recently became a hub of activity in the quiet suburb. Annie remembered when the wide stretch of grassy fields was only used for soccer and flag football, the park grounds becoming deserted after dusk set in. But the advent of the summer night markets swelled to success a year ago, boasting everything from fresh farmer’s produce to children-run lemonade stands. Local bands used it as a platform to play their hits and the music would run into the wee hours of the morning if people camped out at the park.

An elderly woman accosted Annie as she slipped past the woven baskets of fruit. “Freshly picked pears. Best of the Northwest, sweetheart.” She beamed, giving her a long, earnest look.

Red and green Anjou pears, golden Bosc, Bartletts—Annie skimmed the collection.

“Thank you, but I’m leaving town tomorrow.” She offered the woman an apologetic tilt of her head.

“And where are you rushing off to?” The dimly familiar male voice came from behind her.

Annie turned, pausing for a quick second as she placed him from her recollections. “Liam!” Surprise colored her hazel eyes.

A half-smile crept up the side of his face, blasting her with a sudden array of well-worn memories. Speech class, long talks in the library, the faint sparks of—something.

“Hi, Annie.” It felt strange to hear her name roll off his tongue so comfortably. But he had always exuded confidence.

She took in the sight of him fully. He wore a checkered flannel top and beige khakis with converse shoes. His raven hair was cropped short now, revealing a high forehead and sharp cheekbones. Not much had changed in his appearance. Liam had always been lean and bony, and his sharp angles coupled with his outfits and glasses lent him a bookish aura. He was no jock in high school, but he knew his way around jokes and roguish smirks well enough to be a heartbreaker.

“It’s been so long,” she exclaimed, feeling a trace of self-consciousness. “I heard you went off to med school.”

Liam nodded, but he didn’t seem interested in catching up on their lives. His gaze wandered past her, settling on the band. They were playing an old Backstreet Boys song. “Are you here with anyone?”

Annie shook her head. She used to take walks around Stony Ground after dinner with her father, just around the time of day when the last sparks of sunlight pressed against the horizon. But business called him away that night, and Annie appreciated the anonymity of meandering around the night market.

“Neither am I. Let’s go check out the band. One of my old buddies is playing bass.”

“Okay,” she acquiesced.

That was how Liam was. He could go with years of little to no contact, and then pick up old threads of friendship effortlessly. Annie always felt some obligation to rehash major milestones in life when she encountered an old friend, but not Liam. He was more than content to leave the gap years of their friendship unknown.

As they reached the band’s makeshift stage, the sun dipped out of sight, slowly plunging them into darkness. The wind grew brisker and Annie shivered, rubbing her arms vigorously.

Liam glanced at her. “I know what’ll warm you up.” He gestured at the small group, mostly teenagers, in front of the stage.

“I don’t dance,” Annie laughed.

“Everyone dances,” he said simply, and without waiting for a response, slipped his hand into hers and pulled her into the mix.

A protest died on Annie’s lips as Liam spun her abruptly. His face became a blur, blending in and out with the other bodies nearby. Adrenaline welled up deep within her and pumped through her blood. She threw her head back and the yawning, black scroll of the night sky met her unsteady gaze. Annie felt her feet slip a little as she lost her balance, but strong hands caught her arms and stabilized her.

Loosened up, she grinned at Liam. The band blasted the beginning notes of another Kelly Clarkson song, and without missing a beat, they stepped into a quick, swinging rhythm. He was a decent dancer, and Annie was able to follow his lead without much struggle. As they settled into a slower routine, they began humming along with the familiar lyrics. The words and the tune thrust Annie back into her high school days, with glitzy locker decorations and rowdy bus rides. Nostalgia struck her hard in the gut.

Her cheeks were ruddy from the workout as they stepped out of the dance by silent consent. Liam looked flushed as well, some of his dark hair spiking up straighter. Annie thought it made him look more boyish again.

“I’m suddenly glad I never went to a school dance with you,” she commented wryly, as they retraced their steps through the market.

“Smart of you. You would’ve been the envy of the town.” A crooked smile lit his silhouetted features.

“Right,” she said, dragging out the syllable half-mockingly. Once, that smile would have thrown Annie into a happy daze for hours, but now it was simply a sweet but distant reminder of years past. “And you know how I hated attention.”

He shook his head. “As if. I know it’s because you had too many offers to choose from.”

“I’m not sure you remember me correctly,” Annie snorted.

Liam paused in his step and turned to face her. “Oh, I remember you very well, Annie.” His dark brown eyes held her hazel ones unwaveringly, and she felt a slight tremor in her chest. “You know how they say some people always stay with you? I think that’s you, for me.”

That was Liam too. He could swing from flippant to sincere in a matter of moments. Annie had always preferred his jesting side, because she could come up with a sound retort most the time. And if he flirted, she knew a line a two herself. But his sincerity made her feel awkward and inadequate—he could be so unaffected and genuine she felt pressured to respond in kind. But deep down, she doubted her capacity for such naked authenticity, and that had always been the imperceptible wall between them.

“Well, don’t tell your girlfriend that,” she teased, trying to lift the mood again.

He never pressed when she sidestepped. “No girlfriend right now. Much to mom’s chagrin.” He cocked his head and stared at her. “But I heard through the grapevine you found someone. I thought you were getting married.”

Annie blew out her breath. “I thought so too,” she murmured, and left it at that.

“Well, he dodged one.”

He grinned, but she read the sympathy in his eyes. She laughed softly, appreciative. Liam would not offer her pity or meaningless, cheerful babble, and that was perfectly fine by her.

“Remember we nearly went to the same university?” he mused, out of the blue.

“Yeah. I wonder how that would have played out.”

“I’m thinking a nice colonial style house in Stony Grounds. I wouldn’t have gone to med school, and we could settle here and relive the glory days all over. Oh, and I’d like to have twins.”

“What?” Annie gaped at him, incredulous.

His gaze strayed across the grassy field before it landed on her. “You mean I’m the only one of us that’s ever fantasized about our being married? What a shame.”

“I—well—“ she sputtered. His tone was light and half-joking, but their conversation began bringing back the hours they spent in the school library in full and vivid color—the lingering but frivolous talks, the silences they shared. And though years stood between that time and now, along with the experience of profound highs and bitter lows in relationships that overshadowed a girlhood crush, Annie felt a quiet, tremulous thrill spiral through her veins.

“You don’t have to admit it.”

“Always a gentleman,” she shot back, somewhat recovering.

He mock bowed. “At your service.” After a pause, he changed the subject. “You never answered my question. Where are you leaving town for tomorrow?”

“Oh! London, actually. I put in a transfer request at work.”

His dark eyes clouded slightly. “London. That’s an entire ocean away.”

A touch of melancholy undergirded his words, and Annie started a little. Surely, he could not have thought—after all this time, and a mere accidental run-in—

“Well, aren’t you in Maryland for med school?”

“Yeah. I’m flying back soon. Just came home for the end of summer.”

They were back along the fresh fruit row of the market, and some of the stands were closing for the night. The woman who tried to sell Annie pears was still there, though she was packing the unsold fruit into large, cardboard boxes. Liam tarried near her, eyeing the produce.

“Wait,” he called out. “I’d like to purchase one.”

The woman looked at him merrily. “Yes, sir. What can I get you?”

Liam chose a well-shaped, dark red Anjou pear. He turned it absently in the palm of his hand before holding it out to Annie.

“Something from home, since you’ll be in a foreign place.”

She took the pear, her fingers brushing against his. Since her approval officially came through, Annie had looked forward to London for months—the rich history, the culture, the sights. So it was only for a fleeting, ridiculous fraction of a second that she wanted to stay. Or at least, spend one more day at home—and who knew what could happen in a day. But the moment, and the feeling, passed by like a brief but piercing gust of wind.

“Thanks, Liam.” She smiled, but then rolled her eyes upward. “But you know I can’t take this through customs.”

“Damn.” He chuckled. “I was hoping you’d stuff it in your suitcase, forget, and they’d ship you home for endangering the continent.”

“Of course they would. Because five foot two American girl is the very profile of a terrorist.”

“You think they’d be able to put a Maryland return address on you?”

They both laughed, and then fell into a quiet camaraderie. The number of people in the park had dwindled, but the band was still playing. Overhead, the stars sprawled across the heavens, bright and clear, and the occasional bird joined its voice to the music.

The trail through the grass ended, and they were at the parking lot. Annie recognized Liam’s old Honda Civic in the corner spot.

“You’ll be okay walking home?” He glanced at her.

Annie nodded. “I’m just around the corner.”

There was a silence before Liam took her hand and squeezed it lightly. The streetlight brought his face into sharp focus for a moment, but he shifted his weight, and his features fell into the shadows again. “Send me a postcard from London.”

She squeezed his hand back before dropping it. “Sure.”

But her voice sounded a little hollow in her ears as she watched the back of his car recede into the darkness. What would she write to him about? Liam, who’s last few years of life remained a mystery to her still. Liam, who she talked to about everything and nothing—poor subject matters for a five by six postcard framed with Buckingham Palace.

She ran her thumb over the thick, smooth skin of the red Anjou pear and felt unexpected tears sting the back of her eyes.

Born of Idealism and Iniquity

Dana @ Pen and Fire4 Comments

The Hunger Games. Divergent. The Giver. The Maze Runner.

…and on.

Dystopian worlds are seeing a revival in literature—particularly in YA fiction—and film. Many of the books, packaged as boxed sets and hardcovers, make for a veritable weightlifting session at Costco. And the trailers are endless. Even a minute-long propaganda reel from President Snow of Hunger Games fame is eaten up by the masses. The teaser trailer has more views on YouTube than the State of the Union address – you know, the real speech from the real flesh-and-blood president of the country.

Why are we so enamored with dystopia? Do we see some hauntingly real reflection of our own nature and society in those destructive worlds?

In some way or other, each dystopia is a desperate grasp for utopia that goes terribly wrong. The totalitarian regime seeks to quash crime. The criminalization of emotion seeks to put conflict to death by repressing man’s hot-blooded passions. The theme of control dominates dystopian worlds because without it, the entire system topples. But its constant presence also implies this idea: that we think it is necessary. The perpetrators of dystopian societies are not scheming: what can I do to build the most awful, poisonous world ever? No, they are thinking of how they can maintain order, stability and achieve perfection. How they can achieve utopia. Their single-minded obsession may twist them into monsters, but that was not their intent. There is the underlying implication that there must be control, because without it, humanity will destroy itself.

So why doesn’t it work? 

It seems pretty apparent. They might suppress the crime, rebellion, and chaos for a while, but they simultaneously suppress some untamable, deeply human things: free-spiritedness and the wild spectrum of human sentiment. But our freedom comes with the capacity for good and evil, which only begs the question – where is the perfect balance between control and freedom?

Well, there’s no such thing because it’s the wrong question. It is the wrong question because there is no regime, no measured balance, which will make any utopia a reality. The fundamental problem does not lie in an unbalanced system, but in the corruption of the human heart. We are sinners, fallen from glory, incapable of moral perfection. The unbalanced system is simply a symptom of the disease. Dystopia is the child born of idealism and iniquity; it is the collision of utopia’s seduction with man’s sinfulness.

Let’s circle back to the dystopian fad today. There are certainly creative ideas, novel twists, and memorable characters that are breathing new life into the genre. Action, adventure, romance, and intrigue wrap themselves neatly into the fabric of emerging dystopian plots. But I think there is something more than that that draws us. An inexplicable part of our souls longs after utopia, perfection and harmony, but it runs up against the beast of human nature. It collapses, defenseless, in the face of our inability to overcome selfishness and injustice. Dystopia captures that tension, failure, and vicious cycle. We keep trying to beat human nature with human structures and it’s a losing game. On our own, we will only perpetrate the cycle, never break it.

It is a bleak picture. But I didn’t write this to depress you. I wrote this because I realized dystopia gets something so right about human nature, and in that, it stops just short of pointing to the ultimate answer. We cannot break the cycle; it takes an outside force to do that. Changing the system will never save us; we need to change our hearts. Enter the Gospel.

Sinners cannot create perfection; sinners require redemption.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation. We are therefore Christ’s ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us. We implore you on Christ’s behalf: Be reconciled to God. God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. – 2 Cor. 5:17-21

I’d love to hear what you think. Since we aren’t living in a dystopia yet (unless we’re in the Matrix), you can share your opinion and you probably won’t be carted off to prison for it.

But I make no promises.

The Age of Innocence

Dana @ Pen and FireLeave a comment

How do we grow out of our childhood? I wonder if it’s a gradual wearing off, or if most people can point to an event that shed their young, bright innocence like a knife put to sheepskin. Where all of a sudden, the safe bubble you’re in begins to peel back and reveal the ugliness of the world outside.

This was a brief reflection that came to me in poetry form when I was home for the holidays.

The Age of Innocence

Beige walls curve around me
and though I’m not bigger
they’re too safe, and too small.
‘Cause the years are turning
and I know how it feels
to fly, only to fall.
‘Cause the world is burning
and I know how it feels
to love, then lose it all.

I miss the memories
that fill these spaces here.
I’m scared that’s all they’ll be:
old clothes, old toys, old dreams.

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

Dana @ Pen and Fire2 Comments

I am not a writer.

At least, I would never introduce myself as one. It’s a label that might be more lightly tossed around today, but it feels weighty to me and comes with a whole host of expectations. I have neither the credentials nor creations to show for it. Yet, here I am, starting a writing blog.

Because you have to start somewhere, and I’m too impatient to stick one toe out at a time. So here I come, hurtling out of the closet straight into public judgment. (I could say YOLO here, but I think that steals from my nonexistent credibility.)

So, who am I? 

I’m a working professional in my early twenties, currently in business and technology consulting. That sounds better than recent college graduate attempting to figure out her life, though that is also an accurate statement. Then, like all human beings, I’m a bundle of paradoxes and apparent contradictions. I’m a Christian, and our culture may call me intolerant, but I believe Love rejoices with Truth. I have a background in technology, but in my spare time I would rather spin tales than write code. I’m a realist in living, but I prefer my happy endings in storytelling. I’m an introvert, but I’ll be your friend as long as you’re willing. I give my friendship easily, but my trust sparingly. If I could have more of one virtue, like the Cowardly Lion in Oz, I would choose courage because sometimes I fear too many things too much – and like C.S. Lewis said, “Courage is the form of every virtue at its testing point.” I love to laugh, but often at things that aren’t funny. You may think I’m mad, and you might be right.

That’s me in a nutshell, if I’d fit in one.

What’s this blog all about?

There’s not much in my background, schooling, or job that screams writer. My love for writing grew out of my love for reading, and it has always been a hobby, or something I do on the side. But I’ve written a fair amount over the years, and I have an assortment of topics around books and writing that I could go on about. I jotted some of them down recently and realized, I have things to say. Not earth-shattering things (read the Bible for that), but seeds of ideas here and there. Some of them may be ridiculous. Some of them may inspire you. Who knows.

Hence, the birth of Pen and Fire. These are two things I think a writer a needs – a pen to write with and some fire in you to fuel the words.

Here’s a rough sketch of what I’m planning to post on here:

  • Musings on writing, books, ideas, and other related topics
  • Short stories
  • Snippets from my longer works
  • Poetry / lyrics
  • Book reviews
  • Links to good posts elsewhere

So come have a conversation with me. Write back when I write. Tell me what you really think, in all the glory of brutal honesty. Here’s to truth, adventure, and good stories!