A Flame Is A Flame

“I don’t want to be here.”  

It’s a statement I’ve whispered through my tears more times than I can count throughout this journey of change and transition these past few years. I whispered it today. At first, it terrified me, especially the little girl, teenager, and young woman in me who all once whispered the same words on nights when life no longer seemed worth living. Thankfully, it means something different now but even while holding the gratitude I have for the life in my body, I have found myself in this place. Head hung low, eyes shut tight to hide the scattered mess of my life from view, tears flowing and still whispering, “I don’t want to be here.”

Here. This place, this space, this hour of the day. This geographical location. This spiritual placement. This mental space. This emotional position. Just here. In this moment. I’d rather not.

Psalm 130 (ESV)

1 Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!

2 O Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas for mercy!

3 If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand?4 But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared.

5 I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope;

6 My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning.

7 O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is plentiful redemption.

8 And he will redeem Israel from all his iniquities.

Allow me to be a little less cryptic. Grief and its reality opened a floodgate of conversations, internal condemnation, and mental hurdles to climb and overcome. And while healing has been present and ever working, there is a reality that the fire of life and the Lord’s refinement, while processing us, STILL BURNS. I am here in the burning. Here in the pruning, we never quite prepare for. Loss of identity, of confidence, of inner security. Now, before you cringe, identity is and will always be found in God (1 Peter 2:9). That’s unshakable. But what I’m naming is the part of identity wrapped up in personality, preference, and connection. When heartache entered the chat and I trusted God enough to travel a path of healing, I had not yet considered that the trauma hidden deep inside me, desperately in need of healing, had also become a pillar of my personality.

Whew, that’s a mouthful. Let’s be more specific.

Perfectionism is a problem. When I confronted, head-on, my obsession with being flawless and polished, I discovered it wasn’t a God-given standard etched in my heart. Go figure. It wasn’t even a family trait passed along in my rearing. It was trauma, and it was borne directly from the fear of failure and judgment, and rejection. I was a child born of two pastors who grew up roaming the many sanctuaries, halls, and offices of church buildings – big and small, old and new – more frequently than the playground.  On any given Sunday morning or Wednesday evening (or most days in-between), as people came and people went, we lingered – cleaning, working, refreshing, and resetting. And there I was, living and learning behind the curtain, behind the closed doors, behind the adults debriefing and divulging all the details of the day about the tithes, ushers, microphones, parking lot mishaps, the snack supply for children’s church, and of course…the people.

The ones we loved, and served, and devoted our hands and hearts to leading and teaching and loving…those people. And in the hustle and bustle of building, constructing a community, yielding to a revival, and nurturing a ministry for kingdom’s sake, they were always deeply loved… but also somehow deeply burdensome.  Now, I was blessed to grow up in a church that truly had a heart for people. The mission was clear: to share the gospel and see lives transformed by it. No one ever stood behind a pulpit or sat in a meeting and recklessly labeled anyone with cruel words. My parents’ hearts would never allow it. But if we’re honest, the sentiment still slipped through. It showed up in our tones, in the way we maneuvered around certain families, in the unspoken disqualifications we carried in our hearts. It surfaced in our weariness, in the dismissiveness, in the subtle ways we treated the very ones God sent us.

As a child, knowing far too much while understanding far too little and observing the dynamics of imperfect people leading more imperfect people, the assessment felt simple: people were problematic. Often unreliable. Unnecessarily messy. Intentionally catty. Indulgently mean. Unfortunately scandalous. Undedicated and overly dependent. And beneath it all, there was a tone we carried without even realizing it. A tone that treated weakness as something shameful, that made neediness feel unwelcome, and that quietly suggested struggle should be hidden or avoided altogether if you wanted to truly belong.

Really, they were just broken. Broken in the same ways I am broken, in the same ways you are broken, in the same ways every soul you pass on the street is broken. Each one, born into sin, wrestling with their own humanity, in need of the Savior and all the grace His cross affords.

But my young heart, watching the duality in community and absorbing the misplaced emotions of ministers who rarely brandished their own scars in public, quietly set out on a mission. From a very young age, I knew ministry would be a lifelong journey for me and that eventually I would lead, as I had watched the ministers before me. I longed to join their ranks while sidestepping their slander, foolishly believing I could embrace my need for a Savior and carry His gospel without ever admitting that I, too, was broken. I was willing to offer my whole life to kingdom work, but I longed for my imperfections to never be among the details of the daily debrief. That just wouldn’t do. So I would outwork the label of lazy. I would outperform the shadow of mediocrity. I would outshine the accusations of weakness.

It inevitably built a worker bee. A builder, a supporter, a daughter, a friend, always reliable and dependable. The one who showed up when no one else would, the one who did more than anyone else ever could. Not out of pure capacity, but many times out of fear of somehow being discredited.

It built a student, both of school and of life. I digested information quickly and applied it faster with every turn. Not because excellence naturally flowed from me, but because failure was never an option. Failure was a license for whispers or mistreatment, and even worse, rejection.

I wasn’t striving to be the best because purpose was steadily prompting me. At times, I was striving simply because being called “the best” erased the question of what else I might be called if anyone should ever need to go looking for a more fitting label.

This wasn’t just purpose or progress. It was toxic perfection.

And then I healed.

I love that sentence and how simple it sounds, but the truth i,s He healed me. Somewhere in the ABSOLUTE FIASCO that is new motherhood, the ideal of perfection was pried from my hands as I had to settle for simply being present instead. But pulling that pillar of perfection from my personality left a gap in my identity that has yet to be resolved.

If I am not dependable to a fault, forsaking my own heart, boundaries, and needs for others, then who am I? If I admit I have limitations and that every good work is not necessarily good for me to put my hands to, am I even called at all? Do I even like the places I go and the people I seem to attach myself to? Do I want to show up today? And if I don’t, is that okay? Am I okay? Am I erasing too much? If I’m too weary to press on, am I too lazy for the promise? Is this new boundary an achievement or a misstep in relationship? Can I even trust myself to know the difference?

I don’t want to be here.

In this haze, in this fog where healing feels halfway done, I am unsure of every move I make. Where God is in the midst of every moment and every trial, sitting with me, holding my hand, wrapping His arms around me in the midst of the mess, yet we are somehow still here…in the mess.

I am torn between gratitude for His presence and frustration with His patience. It far outweighs my own. Doesn’t He know how much more I could do in this season if He would just touch the mess? I see Him healing me. I see Him working in me. But half of what’s bringing me to my knees is still right here, unchanged, in His presence. Why won’t He touch this mess?

I’ve had to stomach the reality that I don’t truly trust myself in the middle of the mess I feel that I’ve made. In many ways, I am healed, restored, and slowly becoming whol,e and yet He has not written a prescription for the broken pieces of life I shattered in my own weakness. He keeps fixing me. But when do we fix all of it? The bills. The relationships. The awkward tension in places I once loved that now feel completely unfamiliar. When do we fix the silence, the voids, the gaps in community left behind when He plucked people from my life? Will He address these holes? The growing deficit of hope? What about this heartache?

I moved when He said move. That matters, because too often we wear disobedience like a scarlet letter, blaming it as the reason His hand didn’t move the way we prayed it would. But now, on the side of obedience, I find the results unchanged. Which means obedience cannot be the whole story.

I trusted Him. He provided. He is keeping me and we thank God for his grace. And though these truths are most important, I’d really like to know the plan for the mountains of mess that still somehow surround me. God what are you going to do with all of this stuff?

The question itself feels so shortsighted I have admittedly not yet asked it in prayer, but I won’t hide that my heart hurts from the unknown.

You see, grace is sufficient for us, but it is not comfortable for us. Grace is the gap-filler that keeps every bad day from being the end, but it is not the place where we ultimately win. We are not consumed, yet not quite triumphant either. It is not our victory. It’s His. There is no glory in it for us. He owns that too. Living in this place of grace is simply a gift.

This is not achievement. This is not strength or power or poise. This is salvation. This is rescue. Mercy-woven endurance from on high. Unearned, underserved, unjustified longevity. Grace has truly kept me.

My life has often felt like a series of sparks I couldn’t control: choices I made, fears I gave into, the weight of disappointment, the expectations I tried to outrun, and purpose forever lingering. Some of those sparks were mine to strike. And when those sparks collided and intertwined, they became a fire, a mess so consuming it felt like I was standing trapped in the middle of my own undoing. This season has been no exception.

And yet, even in the fire, I am still held. Not with water to quench these flames I likely set myself, but with an embrace inside them reminding me that not even I have the power to construct, by error or by intention, an inferno mighty enough to dismantle or destroy the purpose God has locked inside of me.

And it’s here, in the burning, that I’m reminded that grace does not just preserve me, it steadies my heart long enough for His spirit to teach me. Still, the waiting for relief from circumstance doesn’t feel nearly as holy as it may be. And while I am anxious about survival, embarrassed about my inconsistency in the midst of trial, counting every missed commitment and rushing through the days hoping to awaken to the morning it all suddenly changes, the waiting still weighs on me.

There’s a song by Jordan G. Welch called Satisfied, I’ve been singing for weeks, and she sings:“Satisfied in my waiting, patient in Your presence, no other place I’d rather be than in Your courts with my praises. Even in Your silence, let Your glory be enough. I will be satisfied.”

Her voice is as beautiful as the sentiment, yet early one Saturday morning, feeling the tug of life’s transitions, the song came on and frustration washed over me more quickly than the melody. This time I couldn’t even sing along. I was angry. Because truth be told, I am not satisfied in this waiting. Not at all.

It feels foggy, unfair, and suffocating. I am trying my hand at patience in a place where grief has robbed me of my confidence and stripped me of my ability to trust the very heart I live and lead with. I am a woman of many weaknesses, but honesty with the Father has never been one of them. And in that moment I refused to hum a lie. I don’t know how to say “I am satisfied” when I feel more unsure than I have ever been of where I am, and how I’ll ever grow past this place.

And if I’m even more honest, it’s the waiting that undoes me. I can accept that pain is inevitable, that suffering is unavoidable, that seasons eventually change. But my heart is persistent in asking, “When?”

I am utterly and deeply dissatisfied.

Yet the truth is this: the waiting outlasts my attempts at composure and every show of strength. It lingers long enough to strip me down until all I have left to offer Him is honesty. And He is already fully aware that I don’t want to be here so my confession doesn’t surprise Him; it honors Him. The same place where I whisper, “I don’t want to be here,” becomes the place where God meets me in full transparency and answers back, “Fear not, for I am with you” (Isaiah 41:10).

It’s right there, in the collision of gratitude for grace and fatigue from grief, that I learn truth is not weakness. Truth is reverence. Truth is worship. My honesty does not push Him away; it draws Him near. And weakness revealed is not unworthy. It is not grounds for rejection but the stage for Christ’s power to rest on me (2 Corinthians 12:9).

It allows me to name the ache and still stay with Him. It reminds me that dissatisfaction is not rebellion; it is hunger and hope for something greater than the brokenness of today. Hunger, when it turns me back toward God, is holy. Weakness surrendered to a loving Father becomes an invitation for closeness.

So I stay here in the burning, not happily but willingly, despite the ache, because I trust Him enough to bring Him the rawest parts of me. This is not tidy, polished faith. This is faith that breathes truth in the fire, believing that God is worthy of my honesty, and that even this offering is enough.

But I also must admit, that while the demand to wait on relief leaves me restless, it is the uncertainty of the outcome that carries with it a quieter ache, the deep desire to be chosen. For so long, I lived for the approval of people who admired my resilience, strength, and capacity to give, but they didn’t like what it cost me. Truthfully, they couldn’t. They had no way of comprehending what “trial by fire” had forged in me. The nights I barely survived, the burdens I carried in silence, the parts of myself burned and reshaped in the flames of earlier seasons just like the present.

I know now I can’t expect them to understand. How could they? Fire can be explained from the outside, but it can only be understood from within. Yet, we ache for approval. We crave it so deeply that we will run ourselves ragged for it, at least I did. We give, we strive, we sacrifice pieces of ourselves for the chance to be seen and affirmed. And when we hurt, we long for people to enter that pain with us, to fully understand it and hold it. But the truth is, they can’t. They don’t have the capacity to sit in the weight of our struggle the way we wish they could. And maybe that’s why human choosing feels so good, because it brushes against what we were created for. It’s only an echo of the deeper reality that we were already chosen by God, and our hearts go searching for confirmation of what has been true all along.

But God is different. He counted the cost, and He paid it in full. Every flaw, every failure, every weakness was covered at the cross so that I could be found holy and blameless before Him (Ephesians 1:4). The world may admire the fruit but resent the fire. Yet, God honors both because he is threatened by neither. He has the power to hold us steady in every tumultuous moment and to work all things together for our good. His presence is not fragile or conditional; it is covenant.

And the truth is, as a child I did not understand any of this. I worked from trauma, doing everything I could to avoid rejection, believing that hiding my weakness would secure my place. I tried to be chosen by outworking my humanity. I thought if I was flawless, dependable, tireless, then maybe I would never be dismissed or overlooked. But even then, while I was hiding, I was already held. God had already called me His own. My ability to love Him through the brokenness, to show up in sanctuaries with my flaws and fears, to serve Him with both my limp and my longing, was not proof of my perfection. It was proof of His grace.

Because it was grace that chose me before I even knew who I was (Ephesians 1:4). It was redemption that found me when I didn’t even know I was lost. But in my ignorance of that truth, I chased the acceptance and choosing of people, thinking their approval could secure what God had already settled. And especially in seasons like this, when life feels undone, rejection abounds, and my weakness is on full display, I am reminded that His choosing has never wavered.

Every act of service, every tear-filled prayer, every imperfect offering I placed before Him did not qualify me; it testified to the One who already had. So my life, messy, fractured, still reaching, is not disqualified by weakness; it is proof that I belong to the One whose strength sustains me.

This is what it means to be chosen by God from the beginning: to be found by Him now, bringing truth instead of polish. To be found starting fires in my own life that become places of refining through His promises. To be found in need of Him, dependent on His mercy, and called into obedience by His Spirit. To be found not perfect, palatable, and not even patient, while still consenting to the process where “steadfastness has its full effect” so that I may be “perfect and complete, lacking in nothing” (James 1:4).

But let’s be honest. The path toward “lacking nothing” often feels like standing in the middle of a furnace. The heat rises, and with it come the questions, the distress, the mountains of circumstance that loom so much larger than us. Divorce papers that split a life in two. Empty bank accounts and bills that refuse to wait. Children we are desperate to shield from pain we cannot control. The quiet ache of singleness that sometimes feels like invisibility. The relentless pressure of caregiving that leaves little space to breathe. The mirror that reflects a body we barely recognize. The loneliness of friendships fading or never forming. The heavy fog of not knowing what direction to take or where we truly belong. These are the moments when we feel small, exposed, and ashamed, as if weakness makes us unworthy to stand at all. And yet these are the very places where Christ does His work.

Some of those flames are born outside of us, but others begin closer to home sparked by our own choices, our own trauma, or our own ignorance. Sometimes, I definitely lit the match that began the blaze. Having to own what feels like my own demise has overwhelmed me more often than not. But this isn’t accountability; it is blame that invites shame. It feels embarrassing, exposing, pulling hard on the old part of me that never wanted to be seen as messy or imperfect.

And specifically on a Saturday morning, trying to tune out a melodic confession of satisfaction with waiting I couldn’t sincerely sing (because I didn’t have any of that) I whispered once again, “I don’t want to be here”. 

And to answer my shame God responded,

A flame is a flame.

It doesn’t matter who sets it.

It only matters who’s in it.

This is not just about a bad day or minor disappointments. This is about our hearts searching for a place to lay blame when life has been unkind and our future is uncertain. This is about the times when weakness, shame, and longing collide, when the heaviness is enough to weaken our worship and fatigue our faith. These are the moments when we realize the bito f truth we are left holding is much less than we hoped we could offer Him. Moments that tempt us to believe that honesty will drive God away or that our cracks are too deep to be redeemed.

God does not abandon me to the flames I caused; He steps into them and works what I cannot. And His response, this day, sent both comfort to embrace me and challenge to shape me. His presence silences the shame that tells me I am ruined, and His covenant anchors me when everything else feels uncertain.

This truth shifts the weight off my shoulders. I do not have to explain why the fire burns or assign blame for how it began or resolve all of the moments that lead me here. The flames that should disqualify me, laid bare for all to see, instead become the proof of His covenant. The fire is not punishment. It is the place of His presence.

And I must confess, for years I tried to replace God’s choosing with human choosing. I looked for affection, connection, and relationships to secure me, believing if people chose me, I would finally be enough. But human choosing is always fragile. It cannot hold the weight of my soul. Only God’s choosing, eternal and deliberate, has the power to steady me where I am.

His words to my soul, reminiscent of Daniel 3 and the three boys thrown into the furnace, remind me of this: no matter how terrifying the place, whether persecution from the outside or distress burning within, Christ meets us in the heat. He does not wait for the fire to die down; He steps into it with us. The seasons that should disqualify me, especially when they are laid bare for all to see, instead become the proof of His covenant. They do not expose my failure or lack of faith as much as they reveal His presence and consistency. And when others somehow catch a glimpse of me there, standing in the fire with a Savior, they are witnessing God’s glory firsthand. A witness to his promise fulfilled.  

And all of this, still with no guarantee of when, if ever, I may find escape. And this is His sovereignty: the right to do what He wills with what belongs to Him. (Matthew 20:15)

Yet this is the beauty of being chosen: that God not only called me before the beginning, but finds me now. He finds me still clinging, still coming, still offering what I have left in my hands. He finds me wrestling with doubts and fears, but refusing to hide. He finds me resting in the truth that His goodness is enough to sustain my life. That my purpose, my story, my scars, all of it belongs to Him. Which means the refining, the waiting, even the fire itself are not random punishments but the careful stewardship of a Father who owns me fully even when I feel unworthy.

And so He answers every silent question, every ache of the young girl who only longed to be enough. What others dismiss, He claims. What others misuse, He redeems. What I misvalue or neglect within myself, He protects, defends, and covers.

He does it here. And when He chooses to meet me in the fire rather than pull me out, then even the furnace becomes a sanctuary. A room for an encounter with the God who redeems. A place where not only I meet Him, but where someone else can witness and encounter Him too.

The same goes for you.

You may meet Him in the quiet pages of a journal, where your words tremble but still testify of His faithfulness. You may meet Him in the song that refuses to leave your soul, the melody that reminds you there is still reason to hope even when you cannot yet sing with confidence. You may meet Him in the steady embrace you offer, even when your own world feels unsteady. Or in the devotion of your trust, etched into the eyes of your children as they learn, through you, how to one day trust Him too.

Or maybe like me, you will meet him, driving down the road, eyes filled with tears, a heart full of the truths we rarely say out loud, hoping that your weakness today does not steal your hope for a lifetime.

Wherever your life bears witness, I pray you let it speak. Let it remind you and everyone who sees that you are chosen and you are fully known. Let it declare that your weakness is not disqualification but an invitation for His presence and the very stage for His power. That even when you are completely surrounded, you are never standing alone.

Wherever you stand, especially if it is not quite where you had hoped to be, whether you chose it, caused it, or stumbled into this place, I pray that you see past the moments that brought you here.

I pray you always invite him to stand in it too.

-Pastor Danielle

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Father,I lift before You the daughter reading these words. You see her exactly where she is, in the heat of trial, in the ache of loss, in the fog of waiting. You hear her sacred whispers of despair, her hidden cries of heartache, the quiet admissions of fear when she is alone. And still, You bend low to hold her close.

Lord, let her know that her honesty is holy. That naming her ache does not repel You but draws You near. Let her understand that weakness is not shameful but sacred. It is the very place where Your strength rests and your work begins.

When rejection surrounds her, remind her she was already chosen, long before the world had words for her value. When shame whispers that her mistakes will define what she becomes, let her hear You say, “A flame is a flame, but I am in it with you.” Teach her to see even the fire as a sanctuary, a place where Your presence proves Your promises and where testimony is best born.

Father, I pray that her strength would not be wasted trying to balance the weight of what is not hers to carry. Instead, teach her to invite You in, into the fire, the storm, the silence, the room so that you are able to do the miraculous things that you do when we trust you. Teach her that her life, her scars, her story all belong to You, and that Your sovereignty will not keep Your love from redeeming what others may dismiss.

And wherever her life bears witness, through her prayers, her parenting, her worship, her faith pressed through trials, or her voice, even when weakened to a whisper, let it testify of Your unfailing love. May those who glimpse her in that fire never see defeat, but the glory of a Savior who never leaves.

In the name of Jesus, Amen.

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Promises to remember:

•   “But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.” (1 Peter 2:9)

• “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.” (Isaiah 41:10)

•   “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)

• “Even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love.” (Ephesians 1:4)

• “And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing.” (James 1:4)

• “He answered and said, ‘Look! I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire; and they are not hurt, and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God.’” (Daniel 3:25 NKJV)

•   “Tomorrow the Lord will show who is His and who is holy, and will cause him to come near to Him. That one whom He chooses He will cause to come near to Him.” (Numbers 16:7 NKJV)

• “So that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.” (1 Peter 1:7)

• “Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or do you begrudge my generosity?” (Matthew 20:15)

• “O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the Lord there is steadfast love, and with him is plentiful redemption.” (Psalm 130:7)