The Thing About Fire


I wanted to get away. I needed to get away. 

My husband saw this, and took me to the foot of Sierra-Nevadas for a short retreat.

I was eager to hike something, anything. So before we even checked into our room, we found a nearby trail.

When we stepped out of our car doors, it felt like we were walking into a furnace. It was hot. 105 degrees. We took our last long drink of water and headed to the trail. We just planned to do a quick hike so it didn’t seem necessary to carry anything.

As we walked and the trail led downward, I came across an astonishing tree, beautiful and a little bit strange in a place that was all conifers and manzanitas, rocks and red earth. The madrone. It stood twisting toward the sun, relishing the heat. The sun scorched its bark so that it curled away from the tree like ribbon on a perfect birthday package. It shed layers of black bark, then red, revealing a silvery-green underlayer that was smooth and glassy like butter touching heat.


I found one perfect ringlet. A curly-cued piece of red bark that looked like it could have been a curl off Shirley Temple’s head. I wondered at it. How and why? Such a strange piece of beauty.


We walked on from the stunning madrone and found that the grade kept getting steeper and steeper. The trail was full of loose rocks, and our knees hurt from the steadying.

I kept waiting for this moment: a grand vista, a majestic waterfall, something that made the hike seem worthwhile. It never happened though. The trail ended at a crowded watering hole. It might have been pretty if every rock formation and inch of water wasn’t covered with loud people and floatation devices.  We headed back up the trail disappointed.

Now, one of the unchangeable laws of hiking is that if at some point you walk down, you will eventually have to walk back up. Another one of those laws is that downhill is always much easier than uphill. (Can I get an amen?!)

Sometimes I tell people, “I am a delicate flower. I just wilt in the sun.” I say this with a southern belle accent, eyelids fluttering, full of jest… but it’s true. As I climbed back up that hill, I had a moment. My heart seemed to have relocated to my throat, I could feel it pounding making my airways feel small and tight. My saliva got thick. I felt like I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. Panic rose in my heart. Then little black stars in my eyes’ peripheral appeared, the kind you see when black out is imminent.

My legs went weak, and I let my husband steady me with his arms.

And then I cried.

First, it was just a few tears that I quickly wiped away. Then the tears flowed, too many, too fast to stop them from sliding down my neck. My shoulders crumbled as though I had been carrying a sack of cement that I just let tumble off my back. I was trying not to cry, but I just couldn’t help it.

Mike pulled me away from his chest just slightly so he could try to read what was wrong on my face.

I was worried he thought I was a big sissy-la-la girl. “I’m not crying because I am hot and miserable. I mean I am hot and miserable, and I feel like I can’t do this, but it’s not why I am crying.” It all came out in jumbled sobs. I am not even sure Mike understood what I said. “It’s just… I’m crying because…” I stopped short. I couldn’t get it out.

Mike gave me this gentle look. “I know, Amanda. It’s why we are up here.”

We took a lot of stops on the hike back to the car. I drew deep breaths, slowed my racing heart, and I cried… a lot.

This miscarriage, it’s made me angry beyond words. When I sit in church and hear songs of God’s awesomeness, I can feel the rift in my heart. 


I think of Abraham walking Isaac up the mountain. God asked Abraham to do the inconceivable. I wonder at the questions that might have burned in Abraham’s mind and how he kept putting one foot in front of the other. I wonder if he felt anger as he gathered stones, then sticks, then bound Isaac’s hands and feet. Did he want to scream at God?: “You promised this son! He is my blessing and my miracle and you want him back?! I thought you gave him to me with the promise of descendants as numerous as the stars. How are you going to pull that one off, God?!”

When you read it in the Bible, it only indicates that Abraham obeyed.

The passage repeats this phrase twice: "So the two walked on together." Two together, just walking on. The Promise and the Promised side by side. I can't fathom the bravery and the trust in each step Abraham took. He didn't tell Isaac to go back or to hide, Abraham just kept walking forward knowing he was headed to the place where he would lay Isaac down. You read it, and you just know, Abraham would have followed God anywhere.

I struggle with that kind of trust.

I walked up a mountain and cried because life is hard and our refinement comes in the scorch of fire. I really am a big sissy-la-la, and I want it easy. And I certainly don’t want to lose.

Eventually that hike led us back by the madrone tree. I knew it was that tree by the perfect curly-cue. The piece of wonder and gratitude that I marked when it was easy was the same marker that pointed to home when it was hard. I think of Ann and 1000 Gifts, yes, the counting of gifts always points us Home.

I discovered in researching the madrone that they actually thrive in fire. Their wood is hardy and slow-burning. The conifer overstory is cleared out for a season, giving the madrone time to revel in unadulterated sunshine. Their seeds take root and flourish in the aftermath of fire. A madrone is so desperate for sunshine that they twist their way upward, rarely a perfect vertical, desiring to live in the most amount of sunshine as possible. They even can sacrifice a shaded branch... just so the tree gets the most sun. I think God wants us like the madrone. Desperate Son-seekers, coming out of fire better, stonger, reproductive, giving God everything. And God, He is able to work miracles even in the scorching heat, turning our dark layers into something beautiful… something that one could stop and marvel at and mark the way to Home.


Before Abraham departed from his servants, he told them, “I am going to the mountain to worship.” That word strikes me. Worship. He could have said anything else: rock-collecting, nature-observing, father-son bonding… Abraham said worship.

Abraham obeyed waiting for the moment when God would redeem the hardest, bravest, craziest thing he had ever done. Worship chooses God over understanding. Worship trusts God. Worship walks into the unknown with fear and trembling, one foot in front of the other, grasping the hand of Jesus.

With knife in the air, a clinched and fearful son bound before Abraham, and the realization sinking in that God really does demand everything (EVERYthing), God stops Abraham and points him to the bleating ram caught in the thicket. At the 11th hour and right on time, God revealed His plan for abundant redemption.

Abraham marks the place. If he’d had a smartphone, he would have taken a poetic picture of a smoking altar and hashtagged it: #GodProvides.

There are places in my life marked where God has revealed Himself. They are my madrone tree curly-cues; so perfect and timely that one could only describe them as abundant. My husband’s job—Redeemer. A place to live—Good Provider. The times He’s closed doors and opened doors—Loving Shepherd. The times when I held my tongue and God moved on my behalf—Just Judge.

The pain of these miscarriages? Well, I am walking one foot in front of the other carrying them to the altar.

I am waiting for God to reveal His plan for abundant redemption.





By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


Bible Reference: The story of Abraham can be found in Genesis 22.