In the Fire, Never Alone

The Day I Realized I Was Surrounded

“When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.”
— Isaiah 43:2

As I sit in a local coffee shop today, I am listening to “Another in the Fire” by Hillsong and my eyes are immediately flooding with tears. I have my noise-cancelling headphones on, so I can no longer hear the clanging of dishes or the chatter of the strangers and friends engaging in niceties and mundane conversations. The clicks of the keyboards and the shuffle of the people are muted now. I am brought back into my sacred room on the 10th floor of Duke Cancer Hospital: the place where my weakness became my worship as Jesus formed glory from groanings. I remember like it was moments ago when the feeling of helplessness took over, the moment when I surrendered. You may have been here before, when you recognize there is no hope in your own efforts. It is a decision to relent, to cease striving, knowing God is God and you are not. With the presence of Jesus, this moment of helplessness is not without hope. When the fight within you succumbs to the weight of what you carried, you find rest. As our powerlessness is placed in the hands of our protective heavenly Father, worry cannot win. There is hope. 

I am reminded of the courage of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego when King Nebuchadnezzar threatened their life. They were filled with complete confidence in the protection of their God. They proclaim his provision, boasting that even if he neglects to preserve their lives, they would not denounce him, knowing God’s presence was more valuable than physical safety.

If this be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up. — Daniel 3:16-18

Their fire was not just a place of rescue, but of refining. The furnace revealed the strength of their faith, stripped away any pretense, and displayed God’s glory not only to them, but to all who watched. In the same way, God uses our fires to burn away what keeps us from Him, to purify our hearts, and to form Christ in us. Sometimes, God is rescuing us, but oftentimes he is simply refining us through the fire, reshaping our hearts to be more like his. 

The Lie of Isolation

The devil, through leukemia, tried to tell me I was alone. I was trapped in a hospital room, my prison cell, not allowed to go outside, unable to see my kids, restricted and weak. There was no promised date to return home, no promise of a cure. For all I knew, I would be attached to EKG’s, bags of antibiotics, on oxygen and worthless to the world for the rest of my days. How long would I remain weak and incapable, helplessly dependent on others? Had God forgotten me? Had he abandoned me? Or was He using the fire to strip away my illusions of self-sufficiency, forging deeper faith in Him?

“Our vision is so limited we can hardly imagine a love that does not show itself in protection from suffering… The love of God did not protect His own Son. He will not necessarily protect us — not from anything it takes to make us like His Son.” –Elisabeth Elliot in Suffering is Never for Nothing

This season in my life was a call to consider the love of God. Did his allowance of pain in my life prove his apathy? Or was using my weakness to teach my heart to lean on him?

His voice came through the pain, louder than it had in the pleasure.

“We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

His words came to me through a harp player outside the door, through an encouraging nurse, through notes from my daughter, through a video of my gym family praying over me, through text messages and verses on my walls. He was with me in my room. And when I didn’t see or believe him, he sent his saints to remind me of His presence.

Sacred Spaces

My hospital room became a sanctuary. My walls were papered with verses from friends and family. Texts poured in. Voice memos. Packages. Notes from my kids and nieces and church family. They were not just for me. They were for all of those around me as well. Even the cleaning staff paused at the Scriptures taped to the wall. One said, “Now that’s what I needed today.” 

This wasn’t just “support.” This was the mighty presence of the living God.

Any place can be a sacred space, not just hymn-filled pews or crowds of singers in the heavenly places. It was not the beeping monitors or tubes or medicine that ushered in his presence. He floods into welcoming rooms regardless of the circumstances you find yourself in and nothing can keep him out when you call on his name. In this coffee shop, he is here. That hospital room. The park. Wherever Jesus dwells, there is holy ground. Jesus is and always has been in the business of transforming our pain and uncertainty into a holy revealing of his all-sufficient presence. When we ask, he will speak peace over us. We rejoice in our sufferings because in them, He is more fully revealed.

I don’t know where you are as you read this — maybe it’s your own hospital bed, or a quiet kitchen after hard news, or just a lonely season that won’t seem to lift. 

Whatever you are facing, this is your reminder that God has not forgotten you.

You might be in the fire. But you are not alone.

—Rachel