✨The Glow Between Worlds: A Love Letter to Fireflies (and All That Fades Too Soon)✨
- Reverend Gin Bishop
- Jul 15
- 2 min read
There’s a moment in July—quiet, bittersweet—when you notice the fireflies are growing fewer.
At first, it’s just a subtle thing. One or two less flickers. A little more stillness at dusk. But soon enough, you feel it in your bones: the season is slipping. The tiny gatekeepers of wonder are retreating. And with them goes something unspeakably sacred.
I’ve loved fireflies since childhood. Not just as insects, but as emissaries. Beings of glow and hush who speak a language beyond words. Even now, as an adult—rooted and wrinkled and sometimes tired beyond articulation—I still pause when they appear.
Because I don’t just see fireflies.
I remember them.
Some part of me, older than this body and far more mythic, recognizes their glow as a signal. A soft, pulsing “You are not alone.” A reminder that another realm brushes close—so close—and only those willing to slow down, to wonder, to ache a little, will feel it.
I believe fireflies are tiny gatekeepers.
Not of the physical world, but of the in-between places.
The cracks where time forgets itself.
The portals you can’t photograph but know are there.
A map of longing written in flickers and silence.
But oh… their season is short.
And that’s the ache, isn’t it?
That we’re only just beginning to remember how to feel again, how to believe in glimmers and not just grind—and they’re already fading. Already gone.
It’s okay to grieve that.
Grief is holy.
Grief means you noticed.
That your heart is still working.
Some will tell you that fireflies are just bugs with bioluminescence, but those of us who dream deeper know better.
We know that every pulse of light is a message.
Every soft blink says:
“Magic is real.”
“You haven’t missed your moment.”
“There are other worlds yet to bloom.”
So, when the last firefly fades for the year, and July deepens into a hotter, heavier silence—hold that flicker inside you. Not as a memory, but as a calling.
You are made of that same mystery.
That same glow-between-worlds.
You, too, are a threshold.
And maybe… just maybe… the magic didn’t vanish at all.
Maybe it simply went inward,
curling up inside your ribcage
waiting for you to remember your own light.
Comments