“Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” — Matthew 6:34

“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

Let me be transparent before I go any further: While my faith reflections will always flow from what God is teaching me (and He still has plenty of work to do), right now, I am walking through a season in which failure, disappointment, and missed expectations are not safely behind me. They have become places of prayer, surrender, and formation.

I believe God can use trials to mold me, chisel away what does not belong, and prepare me in ways I would never have chosen and could not have imagined. He may be forming in me deeper faith, greater courage, and stronger character than I ever would have developed on the easy road.

I invite you to join me on this journey as I learn ( relearn ) that the goal is not to escape the unfinished, uncertain, and uncomfortable middle of a trial as quickly as possible. The goal is to meet God there.

 

There is a kind of fear that comes during failure, disappointment, or unmet expectations. It does not always feel irrational. Sometimes it feels responsible.

I know that feeling well. Something goes differently than I hoped. An initiative disappoints. A weakness shows up. A mistake gets exposed. And almost immediately, my mind begins drafting the ending. This will ruin everything. People will lose confidence. The opportunity is gone. This is how the story ends.

For those of us who lead, carry responsibility, or think strategically, this temptation is especially subtle. We are trained to look ahead. We are supposed to anticipate risk, prepare for hard conversations, and think through consequences. That is not wrong. Wisdom does look ahead. But after failure, foresight can quietly become fear-driven forecasting.

The issue is not that I think ahead. The issue is that I can start treating my anxious imagination like revelation. I confuse a possible outcome with a certain outcome. I let fear narrate the future with such detail that it starts to sound like discernment. And somewhere in that process, anxiety tries to finish the story before God has finished His work.

Trials Are Not an Interruption of the Journey — They Are Part of It

Here is where Peter’s words confront me. Writing to believers who were suffering real persecution — not hypothetical pressure, but genuine fire — Peter says something startling: “Do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that has come on you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you” (1 Peter 4:12).

The Greek is even more pointed. The word translated “surprised” is xenizesthe — to treat something as foreign, alien, strange. Peter is saying: do not receive your trial as an intruder that does not belong in the Christian life. It is not strange. It is expected. The word for “fiery ordeal” is pyrōsis — literally a burning, the same word used for the smelting fire that refines metal. The trial is not random heat. It is a refiner’s fire with a purpose built into it.

This can reframe everything about my instinct after failure. My instinct says, Something has gone wrong with the story. Peter says, No — this is how the story goes for everyone who follows a crucified and risen Lord. Jesus told His disciples plainly: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). James goes further still: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance” (James 1:2–3). Paul writes that “we glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope” (Romans 5:3–4).

Notice the consistency across the New Testament. Trials are not treated as evidence that God has abandoned you and me. They are treated as evidence that God is forming you and me. The surprise is not that trials come. The surprise would be if they didn’t.

And Peter does not stop at endurance. He says rejoice — because in the trial we “participate in the sufferings of Christ,” and participation in His sufferings carries a promise: we will be “overjoyed when his glory is revealed.” The trial is not just tolerable. It is, in some mysterious way, an honor. It means I am walking the same road my Savior walked, and that road does not end at the fire. It ends at glory.

God Often Works Deeply in the Unfinished Middle

Israel stood in this exact tension at the edge of the Red Sea. Behind them was Pharaoh’s army. In front of them was water. Around them was panic.

If they had written the ending too soon, the conclusion would have seemed obvious: We escaped Egypt only to die in the wilderness. From the human side, the facts looked terrible. The danger was real. The options looked exhausted. The fear was not imaginary.

But they were about to misread the moment.

Moses told them, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today… The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still” (Exodus 14:13–14). That was not shallow optimism. It was not denial. It was faith standing in the gap between what could be seen and what God had not yet revealed.

They thought they were standing at the end. God knew they were standing at the edge of a testimony.

To be real, this is where my faith is most often formed — not at the beginning, when hope is fresh, and not at the end, when everything makes sense, but in the middle. The unfinished middle gives me just enough evidence to despair and not yet enough evidence to see what God is doing. That is why I must be careful not to interpret too soon. The pressure may be real. The setback may be real. The consequences may be real. But the meaning of the moment still belongs to God.

The Red Sea looked like the end of the road. God saw it as the beginning of deliverance. And here is what I so easily miss: God led them there. “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Tell the Israelites to turn back and encamp near Pi Hahiroth… by the sea’” (Exodus 14:1–2). The impossible position was not a navigation error. It was an appointment. The other routes left room for human resourcefulness to outrun, outmaneuver, endure the fight. Pi Hahiroth eliminated every variable except God. The place that looked like a trap was the stage God had chosen for a deliverance so decisive that Israel would sing about it for generations.

If trials are expected (even appointed ) then the middle of a trial is not a waiting room where nothing happens. It is the hidden workshop of God. He may be forming humility. He may be exposing false security. He may be deepening prayer. He may be preparing courage. He may be teaching me to lead from dependence instead of image management. The fire that feels like it is destroying something may be the pyrōsis that is refining something.

Letting God Do His Work

Here are some of the ways I am working on to actually let God work in the middle of a trial, instead of fighting Him for the pen:

I stop treating the trial as strange. When I am shocked by hardship, I spend my energy on protest — Why is this happening? This shouldn’t be happening. When I accept that trials are a normal, expected part of the believer’s walk, that energy is freed for trust. Expectation is not pessimism. It is preparation.

I refuse fear the authority to write the final chapter. Faith does not require me to deny reality. The Egyptians were really there. The sea was really deep. But I can be responsible without becoming prophetic about disaster. I can name the facts without pronouncing the verdict. The verdict belongs to God.

I stand firm and stay still where God tells me to. “Stand firm… be still” is not passivity. It is the hardest discipline there is: refusing to flee back to Egypt, refusing to force a premature outcome, and holding my position long enough for God to reveal what I could not have engineered. Sometimes the most courageous act of leadership is to stay put in prayer.

I look for what the fire is refining. In every trial I can ask a better question than How do I get out of this? I can ask, What is God forming in me while I am in this? Peter says the fiery ordeal comes “to test you” to prove and purify what is genuine. If I only endure the trial, I survive it. If I submit to the trial, I am changed by it.

I dare to rejoice. Not in the pain itself, but in what the pain means: that I share in the sufferings of Christ, that I am being conformed to Him, and that glory is coming. Joy in trial is not emotional pretending. It is settled confidence and conviction that the middle of my story is in better hands than mine.

None of these postures come naturally to me. They are being formed the same way everything else is formed — in the middle, one surrendered day at a time.

Faith does not always know what God is doing. But faith leaves room for God to be doing more than I can see.

 

Reflection Questions

1.     Where am I standing in an unfinished middle and assuming I already know what this moment means?
2.     Have I been treating my current trial as strange — as an intruder — rather than as an expected part of following Christ? How would 1 Peter 4:12–13 change my posture toward it?
3.     What might God be refining in me through this fire that comfort never could have produced?
4.     What would it look like to “stand firm” today — not by denying the pressure, but by leaving room for God to work beyond what I can see?
5.     Is there any honest way I can rejoice in this trial — not because it doesn’t hurt, but because of Whose sufferings I share and what glory it points toward?