The Seeds That Only Open in Fire

In the longleaf pine forests of the American Southeast, something remarkable happens after a prescribed burn. Park rangers at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida deliberately set fire to thousands of acres each year, and what looks like destruction is actually the beginning of renewal. The intense heat cracks open seed cones that have remained sealed for years. Wiregrass, dormant beneath layers of dead needles, sends up bright green shoots within days. Rare orchids and wildflowers appear in soil that had been smothered under decades of accumulated debris.

The old ground cover must be consumed before the new ecosystem can emerge. Biologists call it a "fire-dependent community" — a world that literally cannot reach its fullest beauty without first passing through flame.

Revelation 21 describes the ultimate prescribed burn. The old heaven and the old earth — scarred by sin, heavy with grief, choked by death — pass away entirely. And from that passing, John sees something breathtaking: a new creation descending like a bride, radiant and whole. The Almighty Himself moves into the neighborhood. He presses close enough to touch every tear-stained face, and He wipes each one dry.

Every sorrow you carry, every loss that smolders in your chest — these are not the final landscape. God is not simply managing the debris. He is clearing the ground for a beauty so complete that death itself will be just a memory, gone like smoke on the wind.