Chasing Fireflies

So I read this other book by Charles Martin called, “Chasing Fireflies.” Like the other book of his that I blogged about, this one amazed me so much! I really like the way he writes and brings his characters to life. I decided to do the same thing I did last time and just give you a few excerpts from his book.

First of all, it’s about a journalist named Chase Walker who was adopted by “Uncle Willie aka Unc” and “Aunt Lorna” when he was 7 years old. Before then, he had no idea who his real parents were or where he came from. At one point when Chase is still young, him and Unc go fishing and Chase ends up underwater trapped by tree roots. Unc dives in and spends three minutes freeing him. When they are both on shore, Chase asks Un why he did it, and his reply was “’Cause, Chase, nothing…not one thing…compares to you.” It just made me think of how God feels about us. We are all unique and special and God made us that way for a reason.
The story also follows a physically abused boy who has also grown up not knowing who his real parents are or anything. All he’s ever known is foster homes and orphanages, until he meets Chase (who’s current job assignment is to write the story of the boy), Unc and Lorna. A district attorney has been assigned his case and in the beginning she fears getting too lose to the boy will not be helpful if ever his real parents show up. Unc tells her, “I appreciate what you’re doing, and I understand why. I really do. Were I in your shoes, I’d do the same. And you’re right…the possibilities in that boy’s future may hurt us. May hurt a lot. But I’m no stranger to the rain. It’s the hurting that makes it right…makes it worth doing.” I just think the writing is beautiful and can really make the emotions of the characters feel real.

Unc and Chase are sitting outside watching fireflies. Unc says: “Scientists say that these things evolved this way over millions of years.” He shook his head. “That’s a bunch of bunk. I don’t think an animal can just all-of-a-sudden decide it wants to make light grow out its butt. What kind of nonsense is that? Animals don’t make light.” He pointed to the stars. “God does that. I don’t know why or how, but I’m pretty sure it’s not chance. It’s not some haphazard thing he does in his spare time…Chase, I don’t believe in chance…this is not chance, and neither are the stars…And neither are you. So, if your mind is telling you that God slipped up and might have made one giant mistake when it comes to you, you remember the firefly’s butt.” It’s an interesting way of going about things, but I think he gets his point across pretty well. God doesn’t make mistakes. He makes treasures.

Chase’s “cousin”, Tommye (yep, that’s how it’s spelled), describes a dream she had to him: “I was standing inside a huge lighthouse. The stairwell spiraled around the inside of the walls of the lighthouse, and it was packed with people like me. Each stood in line, looking up toward the front where people were getting ready to meet whoever was up there. While they waited, they fussed over the pages in a book. Some looked like huge scrapbooks, while others looked like spiral notebooks. Everyone was working furiously, like kids trying to finish their homework before class. But I didn’t have one. Every now and then we’d get to move up a step, closer to the top. I could see a man, maybe the lighthouse keeper, sitting at a desk reading the books handed to him. If he liked the story, he smiled and placed it gently on the shelf behind him. The shelves went on for miles. Pretty, gilded books. Leather bindings. Gold leaf. But he didn’t like every book. And the ones he didn’t like, he pitched down through th middle of the lighthouse. They fluttered down and landed in a huge fire that was mounded high as a house…then I felt something in my hands and looked down to find a book in them. I opened it and found the story of me. And I didn’t like it. Talk about depressing. I nearly pitched it in the fire myself. But then I got to the end, and the last few pages were empty. I looked up front and the line was moving sort of slow, so I figured I still had time. And…I knew the story I wanted to write. So I raised my hand. Everyone looked at me like I’d lost my mind, but what did I have to lose? I’d already been dead. So I said, ‘Sir, you’re not gonna really like the story I’ve written, but if I could fill in these last few pages, you might...Can I go write these last few pages and come back when I’m done?’ He studied me, then smiled and nodded.” Tommye, when she was younger, had run off to California to become an actress. She was in a few commercials and then turned to “adult movies” in order to make a living. She also ended up heavy into drugs. It’s never too late to change your story and make it something to be proud of and not ashamed of. There is so much life to live. We can’t waste it sitting around doing nothing, you know?

Unc decides to explain to the boy just how special he is, as well. First, he explains how Michelangelo would create sculptures from rock and how Michelangelo would say the sculpture was there, it was just waiting to be let out. He goes on to say, “Inside you is a thing worth putting on a pedestal. –worth putting out there for all the world to see. That piece of rock might have been knocked around, roughed up a bit, considered scrap, and thrown on the trash pile…but that’s only because they don’t know what’s on the inside. They can’t see like Michelangelo. Cause, if they could, they’d know that there’s something in there that’s just waiting to jump out. Like there is inside you.”

Now it’s Unc describing a dream he had, “…I had this dream that my life was a rolling canvas. Everyday, it rolled off the sheet, bleached white, onto the beach of my life. Come sunup, I’d begin to paint it over with thoughts and actions. My breathing, my living, and my dying. Some days the pictures pleased me, maybe even pleased others, pleased God Himself, but some days, some months, even some years, they didn’t, and I didn’t ever want to look at them again. But the thing is this…everyday, no matter what I’d painted the day before, I got a new canvas, washed white. Cause each night, the tide rolled in scrubbed it clean, and receded, taking the stains with it. And in my dreams….I just stood on the beach and watched all that stuff wash out to sea…No canvas is ever stained clean through.” I don’t know about you, but this part inspires and encourages me so much. Isn’t amazing how we are given a tomorrow to start over, erase the mistakes from our past. Every day is a new gift, that’s why it’s called the “present” :)