God, Pyro

...I'm burnin'

Yeah I'm burnin'

And I know I'm gonna blister in these flames

So I'll stay here

'Til this smoke clears

And I'll find You in the ashes that remain...

-Nichole Nordeman (Burnin')

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I haven't yet reached the point where I trust God with matches.

He has a tendency, from what I understand of him, to reduce things to ashes before he begins his work.  They seem to be his favorite medium.

There are times when I can be spiritual enough to almost see the point.  Especially if it is someone else's story.  They're sifting through the smoldering rubble that was once their family/body/relationship/dream/you-name-it; nothing remains untouched by the smoke and flame.

The look in their eyes is the worst.  Disbelief.  Confusion.  Worst of all is the simple woundedness of it all: Why does it have to hurt this bad?

And although I hurt too, although there's a piece of me that breaks right along with them -- well, it isn't my house that burned down.  It's a little easier for me to be the optimist.  Words like "deepening character" and "that will be used someday" and "something better will come" flit across my brain.  Sometimes they fly right out of my mouth.  (Which is ok, when they're not spoken frivolously.  When spoken to those we love, words of hope that seem completely ridiculous are often words of help nonetheless).

This perspective is a little harder to come by when it's my life that's become a merry bonfire.  It's agonizing, watching the flames shoot up around what I hold most precious.  There's an anxiety, a fear along with: Just how much is gonna burn before this thing is done?  Just how much do I stand to lose here?

I've seen the look in the eyes of those who've experienced total loss.  I've watched a son at a father's funeral, three weeks before his wedding.  I watched a bride grieve the loss of her husband of a month.  I've seen a godly wife of thirty years watch her husband walk out the door, with younger company.  I watched a mom (my age) of three nearly lose her life to cancer.  I've seen it.  And I don't want to be them.  I want to somehow get through life unscathed.  I like my life unscathed.  I like me without the questions, without the confusion, without the scars.

I used to think I didn't have a testimony.  Now I realize I really don't want one.

I experienced this fear not too long ago, during ER Trip #1.  It was early morning, and I was drinking a mocha with my dad in silence, flipping through a Reader's Digest and watching my mom uncomfortably try to sleep.  On the outside, I was nonchalant, but I was scared out of my mind.  Felt like maybe my number was up.  It was my turn.  And despite my hopeful words about how much good can come from tough times... for the first time I felt that if the fire touched a certain part of my life, there was a good chance my faith would go up in flame right along with it.  I don't think I've ever felt that way before.

Another ER visit, some doctor's appointments, and some tests later, I'm still worried, but the deep fear has receded, and I think things will eventually be ok.

To be truthful though, I remain shaken.  I realized, maybe for the first time truly, that ashes come to us all.  Different details, different fires, different kinds of loss.  (I'm finding that sometimes hearts and vocational aspirations get tossed on the barbie as well).  But they come to each of us.  And there's no guarantee that the one thing you can't live without isn't the very thing you'll lose.

My friends that walked through the fire -- they are scarred, but God did bring beauty out of their pain.  He did.  I watched that, too.  Would they change it if they could?  Probably.  But there also seems to be a steadiness about them when it's all over.  They made it through the fire, and now there's very little that scares them.  (Or at least that's how it seems to me).

I just wish I felt that strength now, pre-burn.  I wish I had some inner reserve of faith that said: no matter what, God, you and me.  I don't.

And the ashes will come.  Now, later, a bit now, a bit later, they are one of life's few guarantees.  I don't inspire myself overly much.  I'm clinging instead to hope that God's no matter what, Stace, you and me will be enough to hang on to me, ashes and all; that his grace, his firm hold on me will be the thing that remains when all is said and done.

This will be the beauty God brings from my ashes.

Eventually.