“Colorado’s East Troublesome Fire explodes in size”

“Colorado fire grows by 140,000 acres in one day”

“Rocky faces long road to recovery from East Troublesome Fire”

These were some of the tragic headlines in the fall of 2020, when my beloved Colorado Rockies were besieged by wildfires of catastrophic proportions.  Along with the rest of the nation, I watched the news in horror, sickened by the apocalyptic imagery. Cars jammed along evacuation routes, headlights struggling to pierce a noontime night. The eerie eyes of fire peering over the mountains, hungry for the defenseless town huddled below. And the charred and blackened nothingness that had hosted thriving forests and plentiful wildlife only a few hours before.  

The fire that scarred Rocky Mountain National Park and threatened Estes Park—the East Troublesome fire—was the second-largest one in Colorado history. Due to high winds and extreme drought conditions, it was also one of the most rapidly expanding blazes on record, exploding from 30,000 acres to 170,000 acres in just twenty-four hours. It entered the park from the west and roared up the Continental Divide, over the tundra, and down the other side of the mountains toward Estes Park. Thanks to a providentially timed snowstorm, the courageous and committed fire crews were finally able to contain the blaze before the town was harmed, but the fires weren’t completely extinguished until over a month later.  

And even after the last embers settled, a tragic trail of destruction was left behind.  Most heartbreaking was the loss of life; although evacuation protocols were enforced, two people were killed.  In addition, 366 homes and 190 other structures were destroyed; many evacuees returned to burned-out shells that had once been homes and businesses.  Obviously, the natural beauty of the park was ravaged.  The fire crossed multiple ecosystems in its relentless march, including the fragile and irreplaceable tundra environment.  Forests were decimated, meadows were blackened, streams were choked with debris, and wildlife was displaced over the 193,812 acres burned.  Furthermore, the infrastructure of the park was damaged; park buildings were burned (including historic structures), campgrounds were destroyed, and roads and trails were in need of repair, with some closed to this day.  It’s sobering to consider all of this destruction, especially given the fact that studies show that it can take nearly a century for an environment to fully recover after a cataclysmic fire.  

Although I had seen the imagery and read the news reports, I didn’t fully appreciate the fire’s impact until this past summer, when I made my first visit back to the Rockies since 2019.  I was shocked to discover that even after two years, the land had barely begun to recover. Hillsides that had been forested were now baking in the sun, with blackened tree trunks tumbled over heaps of dust. Standing in the valley, I could see the burn path slicing across the mountains like a jagged scar. On one trail, I even scooped up a handful of ash that still smelled like smoke. 

However, as I traveled throughout the ruined landscape, I realized that despite all appearances, this event wasn’t as dark as it seemed. As contradictory as it may sound, fires don’t just bring death—in an odd twist, they are instruments of life as well.    

It’s ironic—this destructive force causes so much damage, yet vitality would be impossible without it.  The positive outcomes of fire range from fertilizing the soil to removing invasive species and even promoting the growth of certain organisms. Indeed, the Pacific Biodiversity Institute has gone so far as to declare, “Fire is a catalyst for promoting biological diversity and healthy ecosystems….The ecological benefits of wildland fires often outweigh their negative effects.”  

What an odd paradox. The force that is so violent, so destructive, that tears across ecosystems and gouges the landscape, is the same force without which life would be impossible. 

And so as I walked among the ruined trees and blackened meadows and burned-out mountains, I still had hope—because I knew these bleak images weren’t the full story.  Behind the scenes, the fire wasn’t destroying the Rockies; instead, it was doing its part to keep them alive.  While it’s true that what we see now looks like devastation, in the end, the ecosystem will benefit for years to come. 

My friends, we’ve all had times when we’ve felt as if we’re standing in the fire.  Ash clouds our hearts, darkening our view and making hope hard to see.  Destruction sears across our souls, mercilessly undoing all our dreams.  Helplessly we watch as everything we’ve lived for crumbles into a handful of smoking embers.  And staring across the decimated landscape of our hearts, it may seem as if we’re being utterly destroyed—as if recovering from this is flatly impossible.

I’ve been there, and I’m sure you have too.  Maybe you even find yourself there right now.  And if so, then I know I can’t understand your pain or extinguish the flames that are ripping through your existence.  But what I can do is offer you hope—the radical hope that still believes that good can arise from the most desperate circumstances.  

Please understand me—I’m in no way dismissing your pain or implying that this kind of hope is easily come by.  Fiery times in our lives are excruciating, and the shockwaves of loss they create have terrible consequences.  But what I am saying is this:  even in the midst of destruction, it is life, not death, that will prevail.  

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when His glory is revealed” (1 Peter 4:12-13 ESV).  We tend to be shocked or stunned when we face fires, but this verse reminds us that “fires” are not an anomaly; in fact, they’re an expected part of the Christian life.  Just as forest fires are vital for the health of the earth, spiritual “fires” are an essential component of the ecosystem of our souls.  They may feel like destruction, but in reality, they are the exact opposite.  And in a spiritual sense, their benefits parallel those of forest fires.  

First of all, fires purify.  Wildland fires restrain the populations of invasive species that can otherwise spread out of control and decimate the fragile populations of native organisms. They even remove excessive debris, such as underbrush or fallen trees, that may be choking out the healthy species. And in this same way, fiery trials clear our lives of what could hinder us.  It’s easy for the “invasive species” of sin to creep into our lives, and left unchecked, it can overtake our spirits and crowd out the virtues.  Times of fire, though, tend to expose and remove sinful tendencies. It’s why the Psalmist urged, “Prove me, O LORD, and try me; test my heart and my mind” (Psalm 26:2 ESV).  

Secondly, fires fertilize.  The ash and other organic material created during a wildfire act as natural fertilizer, enriching the soil and promoting new growth.  We too will often find that our greatest seasons of growth occur during times of fire. In the pleasant and painless seasons of our lives, growth is often neglected, but times of fire can catapult our spiritual maturity forward in a way that nothing else can. 

Thirdly, fires rearrange the topography.  You see, fires don’t truly destroy habitat; they only change its type. As fire alters the terrain, it allows some species to thrive; for example, by reducing the concentration of trees in an area, it provides a ready-made habitat for sun-loving species.  We also will notice that as our lives shift due to trials, space is created for new opportunities or goals that didn’t have a chance to be revealed before. In fact, sometimes our times of trials are simply God’s way of redirecting our focus or fostering a new calling.  

But even when we know all these truths, even when we understand the significance of fire, let’s face it—it can still be hard to trust.  It’s hard to believe that this isn’t leading to our destruction when we see the charred remains of our dreams.  That’s when we remember this essential truth: what is most important lasts through any fire. 

You see, the fire raged over the mountains—but it couldn’t tear the mountains down. It could fell trees and burn meadows and force wildlife to flee—but it could never alter the essence of the Rockies. The mighty bedrock that undergirds the peaks remained firmly in place. A fire might change the face of the peaks, but it could never change their form. 

Friends, take comfort in this truth today. If the fires are whipping through your life right now, remember that they cannot take what is most important. The foundation of your faith and the strength of your soul is and will always be Jesus—unmoved, unchanged, and undefeated by any fire. 

And the One Who cannot be changed is the same One Who controls the fires we face. You see, I firmly believe that God was sovereign over the destruction that took place in the Rockies. He stopped the fires before they could invade the town and destroy more homes and lives. He watched over the courageous fire crews that worked so tirelessly. He divinely orchestrated the snowstorm that ultimately enabled the fires to be overcome.  And the God Who determines the length and breadth of wildland fires is also the same God Who decides the extent of our internal trials.  With plans “for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope,” He will bring an end to the destruction in accordance with His plan (Jeremiah 29:11 ESV).  

And that’s the hope for us today. When I went to Estes Park and stood in the burned area, yes, there was sadness. The landscape will not be restored for generations, and that is grief. But at the same time, I saw more than the burned-out trees and charred logs and empty scars. I saw the forest cleared of the invasive species that threatened it. I saw the ash sinking deep into the hungry soil, ready to enrich the vegetation. And best of all, I saw new life—the brave first wave of ground cover and grasses and young trees, rising to remind us that, by the grace of God, hope can spring from heartache, and loss gives way to life.