God refines us in the fire. The flames in our life sanctify us and draw us to God in ways that nothing else can. We emerge with a stronger faith and an unrivalled dependence on him. But the process isn’t easy.

Behold, I have refined you, but not as silver; I have tried you in the furnace of affliction. (Isaiah 48:10)

Ten years ago, the furnace of affliction burned hotter than normal. Suddenly a single parent, my life became a waking nightmare. I cried myself to sleep every night. My daughters were living with sorrow that manifested itself in various destructive ways. My body was failing. Some days I struggled to even dress myself. I didn’t know who to confide in, and I doubted if talking would help anyway. No one could fix this for me. No one could fix any of it.

And today, though I’m not in a season of that kind of intense pain, people whom I love are suffering. How can they endure? How did I endure?

God refines us in the fire. The flames in our life sanctify us and draw us to God in ways that nothing else can. We emerge with a stronger faith and an unrivalled dependence on him. But the process isn’t easy.

Struggling to Breathe

In the furnace of affliction, I often feel like I can’t go on. I wonder how I can keep going when I don’t see an end. I wonder how I can endure with grace when the heat is almost smothering me. What does the Christian life look like in the furnace?

I struggle to breathe. I wonder if I’m going to get air or if the smoke is going to suffocate me. It’s moment to moment. Breath to breath. I can’t think about the future in the furnace. All I can do is pray I’ll survive.

I know God is my only hope, so I need to engage with him. As I look around, no one else is inhaling thick smoky air, so they can’t understand how panicked I’m feeling. I wonder if I’ll ever breathe freely again. I’m not sure if God will ever deliver me.

So, I get up in the morning, pull out my Bible, and start talking to God, begging him to clear the smoke. To lower the heat. To let me out of the furnace. I talk to him about my fears. My anxiety. What I want him to do. I pore over the Scripture passage I am reading, looking for promises to claim. Something, anything, to cling to.

Nothing Matters But God

When I do that, I notice that I’m breathing normally. My heart isn’t pounding. My mind isn’t flooded. It’s as if I’ve walked out of the furnace for a few minutes. It’s clear. I’m not choking. My lungs breathe deeply again.

I can laugh. I have hope. I feel weightless. Nothing matters but God. He shows me things I’ve never seen before. I start underlining my Bible everywhere — God is talking to me. I sit and listen. Sometimes I am still, taking in the holiness of the moment. Other times I scribble furiously in my journal, trying to capture all that God is saying. All of Scripture is alive with promises and hope. Passages I’ve read before, that I’ve passed by in my hurry to get through my “quiet time,” take on new meaning. Now, I linger over them. Savor them. They are as honey in my mouth — the sweetest things I will taste all day. They sustain me.

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