On the morning of our 15-week appointment, I woke up weary. In my mind, this should have been the part of pregnancy when I could breathe a sigh of relief and think- Everything will be okay. Already in my first trimester I had confronted the possibility of a miscarriage only to embrace relief after our doctor found the flickering heartbeat a week later. At 11 weeks, we had seen our little one leap in the womb and heard the heartbeat whoosh through the stethoscope. We had been comforted by our doctor that a loss at this point would be rare. My husband and I began to share the news of our child with friends and family, and yet anxiousness nagged me. A small baby bump began to form, and yet I could not shake the feelings of worry and uncertainty.

On this morning, I felt exhausted by my own efforts to not let worry keep me from hoping. But what if…? What if something was wrong? What if our baby was unwell? As these worries built upon each other, a story I had learned about the missionary, Corrie Ten Boom, came to mind. After witnessing the death of a baby, young Corrie Ten Boom became distraught at the thought of her parents dying and leaving her. Corrie’s father knelt beside her gently and said,

“Corrie, when you and I go to Amsterdam, when do I give you the ticket?”
Sniffling, Corrie replied, “Why, just before we get on the train.”
“Exactly,” her father responded, “and our wise Father in heaven knows when we are going to need things too. Don’t run ahead of him, Corrie. When the time comes that some of us will have to die, you will look into your heart and find the strength you need, just in time.” ¹

After reflecting on this story, I wrote this prayer in my journal that morning:

I’ve been trying to walk this fine line of being excited without being vulnerable to hope, and it is exhausting. I want to embrace a greater margin for Your comfort. Should disappointment and suffering come, I trust that You will “hand me my ticket” when the time is right.

Later, as I lay on my back while the nurse searched for a heartbeat, my worries resurfaced. “I guess we will need an ultrasound after all!” she said cheerily as she wheeled over the machine.

I was relieved—I wanted to see the hidden form of our baby anyways. I remember the ultrasound screen coming into focus. I remember searching hungrily for our leaping little one. I remember seeing our child lying quietly in the shadows of my womb, not moving. I remember everyone in the room being very still.

“I’m going to go get your doctor,” said the nurse.

As she left, I looked at my husband and saw his red-rimmed eyes. I looked away and folded my arms over my abdomen in an effort to hold what I still had. And yet, as I stared at the ceiling, eyes burning, peace reigned in my heart.

Ah, I thought. There’s the ticket.

***

I’m not quite sure what Father Ten Boom meant by “looking into our hearts” and “finding strength”. As we have walked through our miscarriage, I can only assume that he is not referring to our own strength to carry on in grief. There have been nights when I’ve prepared for bed and thought to myself—I did good today. I didn’t cry. But instantly, tears would spill over at the thought of having to carry on the same way all over again tomorrow. I am dependent on the inner workings of the Holy Spirit to mobilize me out of bed and confront the normal parts of life while grieving. What I appreciate about Father Ten Boom’s wisdom is that he teaches a lesson about the unfruitful labor of anticipating suffering.

Earlier in my pregnancy, when I first thought I was going to miscarry, I tried to plan out my response. I wanted to respond to loss like a “good Christian” and embrace all the platitudes that people would share with me and then demonstrate them towards the watching world. I would show others that I was trusting of my Father and that I would be joyful no matter the circumstances. I would protect myself from grief. There would be no reason to mourn because somehow theology or reason would strengthen me and deliver me from the brokenness of this world. Yet, in the weeks prior to the actual loss of our child, I confessed this hardness of heart to God. He showed me Matthew 5:4—

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

If we anticipate suffering, whether it be through stoicism or anxious ruminations, we refuse ourselves the margin for mourning. And if we do not mourn, how can we be comforted? The nearness and comfort of our Father is good, and it is what makes us blessed. It is the comforting closeness of our Shepherd that strengthens King David to continue walking through the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4). And so it is for us. Our own strength will not meet us on the other side of being sad. Fear and worry will not protect us from needing to mourn. It is no good trying to keep ourselves from the comfort that our Father has promised us. Don’t run ahead of Him. When the time is right, He will give us the ticket.

He will give us Himself.

He is the ticket.

^{1. Ten Boom, Corrie. The Hiding Place. Chosen Books, 2006.}