"Wildfire Sunrise," 18x24 oil on canvas.
It had happened overnight. We went to bed under clear skies and woke to a red, apocalyptic haze filling the valley of our Idaho vacation rental.
As a lifelong east coaster, I was unaccustomed to the effects of wildfire season in the west. I’d been in the area only once before, and while I’d seen the telltale signs—hillsides that were bleached with the skeletons of trees—I hadn’t been there during the actual event.
Luckily for us, the fire wasn’t local. The smoke, it turns out, was courtesy of neighboring Oregon, which was suffering one of its most destructive wildfire seasons on record.
As I looked across the landscape, the acrid air reminding my lungs that I’m an asthmatic, I was confounded by two things: first, that the effects of destruction could reach so far, and second, that, despite the reality of what was happening, the view was still… beautiful.
Was I even allowed to use that word? Thousands of acres were being reduced to ash, habitats and homes were being destroyed. Was it possible for something causing so much suffering to be “beautiful?”
Another paradox
Two years later, as I pulled up the reference photo and set up my canvas, I was listening to Andrew Peterson’s God of the Garden. (I know, another Andrew Peterson reference. I’ll warn you now, there will be plenty.)
Technically the book is about trees. And hope, and sorrow, and the relentless love of God. But as he addresses those topics, Peterson unveils the stories behind some of his songs.
It turns out my favorite, truth-filled tunes were composed from a place of profound longing—of the sacred sorrow we feel when we are overwhelmed by the brokenness in and around us and long for the restoration of a Savior.
Once again, I was struck by a paradox: the lyrical and melodic beauty that had encouraged me and countless others had come from a place of suffering.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t clear by the end of the book whether the circumstances that inspired the songs ever changed—at least, they weren’t completely resolved. Peterson never found a magical solution. And I don’t think anyone would read his stories and say, “well that’s fine, those trials weren’t all that bad,” No, they were clearly heartbreaking products of a fallen world. The trials, in and of themselves, were not “good.”
And yet, somehow, something beautiful came from them. How does that happen?
As I mulled it over, attempting to recreate the red gradient of the smoke-filled sky, a thought struck me: this was contrast at work.
The rule of contrast
It’s a basic artistic principle. If your subject is disappearing into the background, you add a contrasting color or value to push them to the front. It’s not that the contrast adds to the subject, but it makes you notice something you might have otherwise missed.
Contrast forces a shift in perspective due to a changed environment.
Maybe what Peterson experienced was something like that. When faced with overwhelming darkness, we have two options: sink in, or look for the light. It appears he chose the latter. But, had he never walked through that suffering, would he have felt the need to seek and sing of Truth quite as keenly?
My suffering will probably never produce award-winning records, but I know that my greatest seasons of growth have always occurred in proximity to my most difficult experiences. Much like the subject of a painting, truths about my need and God’s character are already on full display, but without something to recenter my gaze, I tend to get lost in the periphery. Without flames to catch my attention, I fall prey to distraction.
I think perhaps the fire has a purpose.
The silver lining of smoke clouds
Do you know what a wildfire does? It’s terrifying and destructive, yes, but as it runs its course, it consumes all the dead matter on the ground, releasing nutrients into the soil as it goes. Not in spite of, but because of a wildfire, new generations of plant life find room and nourishment to grow.
When we are surrounded by suffering, the contrast forces us to reckon with our own dead matter—things that would otherwise have prevented growth.
I’m not the first to make this analogy. Twice in the Old Testament, prophets reference God’s “refining fire,” which tests, purifies, and ultimately restores His people to a right relationship with Him (Zechariah 13:9, Malachi 3:2-3).
So, can beauty be found in a wildfire? Is there goodness to be found in suffering?
Well, not everything can be like that hazy Idaho view—beautiful in and of itself despite its source. But one of the greatest gifts we have as children of God is a new, broadened perspective.
Pain and heartbreak are a universal experience, but as Christians, we wrestle the darkness with a piercing confidence that “God causes all things to work together for the good of those who love Him” (Rom. 8:28).
The circumstances before us may not be beautiful, but the promise beyond the horizon is. The dead matter will be burned away, new life will come, and the final view will be all the sweeter for the smoke in the air.
Food for thought:
God of the Garden, by Andrew Peterson
Note: I am not affiliated with these resources, nor do I earn commission from sharing them. I'm just a big fan.
Comments