Staying Green in the Fire

“When He has tried me, I shall come forth as gold.” 

― Job

Staring at the white page, I take a deep breath. Slowly I draw a large rectangle, leaving two inches of white margin on all sides. I pause briefly, then write the word “Fortitude” inside the box, centered at the top. Even to write about fortitude, I feel an instinctive need for the margin that allows my heart to stay nourished in the midst of hard things. 

The dictionary defines fortitude as “courage in pain or adversity.” Over the years, I have met a few people (of whom I’m jealous) who are naturally patient and possess a high pain tolerance, people with “a long fuse” who can put up with startling amounts of inconvenience, discomfort, or hardship without complaint. I am married to someone like that, and it was for his quality of calm, persevering fortitude I married him—as much as for his tall, rugged good looks. But for most of us with normal-length fuses (or a bit shorter, in my case), fortitude is not innate. I tend to shrink from pain and dread adversity. Like resilience and integrity, fortitude is tested and proved over time. If there is any in me at this stage, it has been hard-won through difficult experiences and the slow marathon of “a long obedience in the same direction.” [1] 

Most of us can point to an episode in our lives when we were thrust, suddenly or gradually, into the fire. Maybe an unexpected diagnosis plunges us into a traumatic health journey, like when our daughter contracted Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia/Lymphoma at three years old. Maybe it’s agonizing personal adversity, a dream deferred making the heart sick. Perhaps it’s a battle with anxiety or depression. Maybe a child is suffering a painful crisis of identity. It could be the ongoing ache of relationship chaos or the devastating estrangement of a significant friendship.

Afflictions take many forms and faces but they all have one thing in common: they each arrive bearing the potential to forge in us the gold of fortitude. As I am plunged into the fire, usually against my will and never at a convenient time, I have a choice to make. I can grit my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut, and cringe away from the scorching heat; or I can breathe deeply, reach my roots deeper, and look for the gold that will form. Fortitude is forged in the fire of adversity, but it takes margin to be able to be patient in the pain. 

After the prophet Jeremiah warns that whoever turns away from the Lord and trusts in their own strength will be like a dry shrub in a wasteland, he adds:

“But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord. He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit” (Jer. 17:7–8 ESV). 

Despite having been brought safely through multiple fires, I still fear when sudden heat comes. I still feel anxious when I begin to sense a long drought. Every time I take my eyes off the Lord and trust in my own resources, I worry and wither. Healthy margin is what enables me to “send out my roots by the stream” to absorb the living water of God’s goodness. For my leaves to stay green when heat comes, I need space to breathe and process, to abide in the heart of God and renew my awareness of His presence with me in the flames. 

Creating whitespace in my life requires me to do three things: acknowledge my limits, establish and honor good boundaries, and then fill those spaces with delight. I really hate limits, but I’ve learned that maintaining margin means choosing bed-times that are kind to my body. It means saying “wait” to my phone for 24 hours each week. It means moving in a way that feels good and fills my lungs with oxygen. It means pausing before sleep to journal and walk through a daily reflection. At times, creating margin has meant pursuing counseling or receiving spiritual direction. Especially during seasons of struggle, I try to gift myself a couple hours each week to do something that brings me delight: devouring a novel, watercoloring badly, fleshing out a new song idea, trying a delicious recipe, tending my garden, calling a friend. Whatever invites my soul to breathe is what I put in my margins.

In her beautiful allegory Hinds Feet on High Places, Hannah Hurnard describes a plot twist in her main character’s journey. Originally following her Shepherd’s call to climb up to the High Places, Much-Afraid sees the path turn and lead down into the scorching desert, the exact opposite direction from where she thought she was being led. Reluctantly, with tears, she again lays her will on the altar and follows the path away from the high places she longs for. Below, she finds a huge pyramid; in one room she is shown a huge mill-stone crushing bread-corn into fine, pure flour. In another room is a furnace, refining gold in heat hot enough to cause every impurity to rise to the surface so it can be removed. 

During her sojourn in the desert, Much-Afraid spots a tiny yellow flower growing cheerfully underneath a drip of water from a pipe. Its tiny voice tells her, “My name is Acceptance-with-Joy.” Accepting the fire in the first place is scary and hard. Doing it with joy is even harder. James says, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds…” I used to read that and think, Hah! Yeah, right. Who thinks pain is fun? James continues, “…because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:2–4 NIV). 

Peter says, “Dear friends, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you, but rejoice inasmuch as you participate in the sufferings of Christ, so that you may be overjoyed when his glory is revealed” (1 Peter 4:12–13 NIV).

The point of Jesus’ human body was to enable him not just to suffer for us, but with us; He experienced a version of every human agony there is. Even when our pain isn’t from overt persecution for the name of Christ (and some of it might be), if we suffer with Jesus in a way that points to Him, we are participating in His sufferings. 

If I am in Christ, I have Someone residing in me who knows exactly what my personal agony feels like. He invites me to suffer with Him so that my faith in His ability to sustain me in the pain, and somehow bring goodness from it, will produce the perseverance that leads to my growth. As I lay my will on the altar, He plants and nurtures the flower of Acceptance-with-Joy in my heart. As I accept the scorching path as an invitation, in my depths He quietly forges the gold of fortitude. 

As she finishes her time in the desert, Much-Afraid notices a long line of men and women trailing into the distance, all those who have traveled through the furnaces of affliction and come forth as gold. She takes the hand of the last in line and joins their good company. [2] When I’m in the midst of the fire, maintaining margin can feel impossible. It’s a comfort to be surrounded by a “great cloud of witnesses,” both past and present, who have discovered the secret of Acceptance-with-Joy. In the white margins I created in my journal while writing this article, I jotted down names of people I can count on in the hard times to help me honor my limits, sink my roots into truth, and choose joy. The path through the desert is hard. We need each other. 

If I have been cultivating margin and rhythms of rest, I will not fear the fire. When heat comes, my roots will stay immersed in the River of God’s presence. Instead of melting down or burning out, I will stay green. The agony of adversity, instead of consuming me, will forge me into gold. In the midst of a series of personal calamities that tore his heart with grief and literally melted his skin from his body, Job cried, “But He knows the way I take; when He has tried me, I shall come forth as gold” (Job 23:10 NASB). Every human undergoes fiery trials. The One who knows the way we take, who walked it Himself and walks it with us, is the One who can alchemize our pain into gold. 

Endnotes:

[1] This phrase was first coined by Eugene Peterson in his book by this title.

[2] Hurnard, Hannah. Hinds Feet on High Places. Tyndale House, 1975.

The featured image, “Rose Remains,” is courtesy of Amelia Friedline and is used with her kind permission for Cultivating.

Carolyn Broughton

A writer, songwriter, and amateur music producer, Carolyn holds a Bachelor of Music from Wheaton College, where she pursued her twin passions for music and spiritual formation. Living overseas for the past twenty years has given her a keen interest in the connections between the inner life, the craft of making, and the art of sojourning, especially how tending her own soul affects her ability to tend the souls of others. Carolyn has contributed to an anthology of pandemic art, Beauty from Brokenness, and to Yet We Still Hope, a collection of honest, vulnerable essays by women serving overseas. You can connect with Carolyn and find her music and resources for the sojourning life at www.carolynbroughton.com.

www.carolynbroughton.com