I've been writing SF for most of my life, some of which has been published in the mainstream. However some years back I wrote a major SF blockbuster which is not explicitly Christian, but which carries a Christian subtext. In a sense God is in the background, even though the characters don't quite identify him.
This is the sort of thing that I mean:
The spaceyard at St. Barbara removed the stained deck plate, where Alan had died, from her ship and replaced it with a new one. Everything that was known of him was engraved on the durable, almost eternal, alloy of the old plate, which would be his covering for all time.
As was becoming to one who had fallen in the cause of the Confederation, even though he had not been a member of Space Fleet, Space Fleet came to do him honour, and the officers sang the hymns, old when mankind first left the Earth, that are proper to the passing of an engineer. So they laid him in his grave, and his story with him, as they would have done for an officer.
Jane put aside her uniform and stood alone, by his grave, in simple loose black trousers and smock. When the earth had fallen on his coffin, she knelt and with her own hands planted roses to his memory.
As she shook the soil from her fingers something about the glade became different, as though an immense presence hung there. A presence that offered no promises and uttered no threats, but merely said, ‘Follow.’
That last warm afternoon on Topanga had been the same. She'd known then that joining Space Fleet meant grief and danger—and sheer hard work. But it was right—and rightness mattered to her. She could have turned away and gone home, or anywhere else she chose. But she'd have had to live with knowing that she wasn't doing what she knew was the right thing.
And this was the same. After what had happened nobody would blame her—or even be surprised—if she turned away now, resigned her commission and found a quiet place to live. But she'd know that it wasn't right—and still the silent voice said, ‘Follow.’
She stood up. The breeze was stronger now and she turned towards its healing coolness. For a moment fear welled up within her—going on offered no certainties, no promises. But a part of her had died and now she could hold her own life lightly.
She nodded faintly, accepting the call.
And death no longer had any power over her.
I've finally decided to go indie with it, and put it on Amazon, Kobo and Nook. If anyone is interested there are links at arcturian-spacefleet.com.
Now is that a conversion experience? Jane doesn't know who or what is calling to her, but recognises goodness.
This is the sort of thing that I mean:
The spaceyard at St. Barbara removed the stained deck plate, where Alan had died, from her ship and replaced it with a new one. Everything that was known of him was engraved on the durable, almost eternal, alloy of the old plate, which would be his covering for all time.
As was becoming to one who had fallen in the cause of the Confederation, even though he had not been a member of Space Fleet, Space Fleet came to do him honour, and the officers sang the hymns, old when mankind first left the Earth, that are proper to the passing of an engineer. So they laid him in his grave, and his story with him, as they would have done for an officer.
Jane put aside her uniform and stood alone, by his grave, in simple loose black trousers and smock. When the earth had fallen on his coffin, she knelt and with her own hands planted roses to his memory.
As she shook the soil from her fingers something about the glade became different, as though an immense presence hung there. A presence that offered no promises and uttered no threats, but merely said, ‘Follow.’
That last warm afternoon on Topanga had been the same. She'd known then that joining Space Fleet meant grief and danger—and sheer hard work. But it was right—and rightness mattered to her. She could have turned away and gone home, or anywhere else she chose. But she'd have had to live with knowing that she wasn't doing what she knew was the right thing.
And this was the same. After what had happened nobody would blame her—or even be surprised—if she turned away now, resigned her commission and found a quiet place to live. But she'd know that it wasn't right—and still the silent voice said, ‘Follow.’
She stood up. The breeze was stronger now and she turned towards its healing coolness. For a moment fear welled up within her—going on offered no certainties, no promises. But a part of her had died and now she could hold her own life lightly.
She nodded faintly, accepting the call.
And death no longer had any power over her.
I've finally decided to go indie with it, and put it on Amazon, Kobo and Nook. If anyone is interested there are links at arcturian-spacefleet.com.
Now is that a conversion experience? Jane doesn't know who or what is calling to her, but recognises goodness.
