We were on a rocket ship—inside without training, without warning, there by surprise. Like most launches, this one started with an explosion that rocked us and sent us soaring. Followed by weeks living wide-eyed, spinning mid-air. Behind us, the world we had known looked simple, like a drawing from a child who has just learned the earth is round and blue.
We decelerated long enough to ponder the new life coming to join us. To dream of how we would hold our child. To watch our baby grow. But that was months away. On this day, we were to get a peek. And with my hand on the handle above my car window, my back pushed against the seat, I practiced breathing how I imagined NASA taught their astronauts to breathe as they exited the earth—without covering themselves in vomit. I am an astronaut, and I will make it twenty minutes to our destination without pulling over and leaning out of the car. My husband rested his left hand on the wheel and calmly drove us north.
We parked and entered the doctor’s office. Inside, globular vases stuffed with fake flowers failed to distract us from harsh fluorescents and bare walls. Once seated, I wanted to experience life like the women around me. Every couple of seconds or so, they’d shift their weight. Their cheeks were flushed and puffy, arms swollen, their breathing heavy. Normally, I wouldn't choose discomfort, but I wanted this one. My right hand reached down, in anticipation, to cradle my abdomen—at this point, no bigger than if last night had been pasta night.
“My-ja Poo-liam.” I heard my name.
I followed the tech back to the room. And before long, we watched the screen, studying it for signs of life.
I knew sonograms were supposed to be difficult to read—that’s the stereotype, right? They end with soon-to-be parents holding the first photograph of their baby upside down, drowning in amazement. I knew I was supposed to react like that. But something didn’t look right.
My husband, on the other hand, reacted according to script. He squeezed my left hand in the dark, his face glowing with light reflecting off the screen on the wall. He smiled. “So that’s our baby.”
I responded with the smile you give a stranger you pass on the street. My neck was rigid as steel. Unblinking, I stared at what I didn’t see. And I knew. I watched as the stars in our universe fell. When stars fall and wonder fades, you question why you’re even on the rocket ship in the first place.
Soon, a nurse led me to another exam room drowning in artificial light. I placed myself on the table, legs dangling like a toddler. And I waited.
And I waited.
And I waited.
I’m pretty sure time walked through mud to get to me. After what felt like hours, but was probably only twenty minutes, my doctor came in to tell me what I already knew.
I miscarried at twenty-three. I guess adulthood wanted to hit me quickly. My husband, Dillon, and I said our vows only two months before learning of our pregnancy. Then, at what should have been the ten-week ultrasound, we learned that our baby never actually made it to week ten.
I didn’t cry. The heat of the lights above failed to soften the steel of my neck—a rigidity which, by then, had spread to my shoulders, my chest, and my jaw. No, I didn’t cry. Like a good student, I sat silently, and I listened.
Did I want a pill?
Or surgery?
Or did I want to wait some more?
“We had plans for a honeymoon in Hawaii in a couple of weeks…”
I guess we needed to change those.
I stood. My legs faithfully carried the weight of my body back to the car.
Dillon gripped the steering wheel and drove us south. I stared straight ahead as perfectly painted lines on the newly paved road flew under us. We were driving on a conveyor belt, going nowhere.
That day, my Bible App said the verse of the day was Romans 5:3–5:
Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
Listen, I love the Bible, but are you kidding me?
***
When my husband and I experienced this pregnancy loss, I was deep into my studies in seminary. I could give you a background on the apostle Paul, tell you where I think he lived when he wrote this letter to the church in Rome, present you with a word study on any of the 4 words in these verses, and even write for you an entire paper on Paul’s theology of suffering—or of endurance. Or shame. You could even have handed me this text written in Greek, and I could have read it aloud to you and translated it for you on the spot. But as I sat in the exam room waiting for my doctor, trying to distract myself by reading the verse of the day, I wasn’t thinking about historical backgrounds or theology or Greek.
“Please God, no.” If suffering produces endurance, I don’t want endurance. If endurance produces character, I don’t want it. If character produces hope – well, what’s the point of hoping if things just crumble? If I don’t hope, I couldn’t possibly be put to shame. And I have God’s love already anyway.
As I sat, head bowed, eyes glued to the screen in my hand, each beat of my heart rang as a drum against my chest. I knew suffering would come, and I knew it would start when my doctor came in to confirm it. But until then, I sat and waited and watched as suffering charged toward me, the dust cloud looming larger each minute. I wanted to run. Fight or flight kicked in, and I wanted to run. But I couldn’t outrun a stampede. So, I sat and listened to the ting-ting-ting of each heartbeat keeping time.
When I read the truth, that “we rejoice in our sufferings,” instead of leaning in to what I claim to believe, I acted as though it was false. I acted like I thought God lied. Or maybe he was confused. My immediate reaction? No. I don’t want to suffer.
Had I forgotten the One in whom I placed my faith? The Suffering Servant. The Lamb who was slain. The one on whom Roman soldiers placed a crown of thorns. He who endured the cross. Had I forgotten that I had committed to living a life like His? Had I forgotten the conforming work of the Holy Spirit to make me look like Him? Had I forgotten the basic tenets of the truth I believe? With the saints of old, this is the faith I proclaim:
I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth.
I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit
and born of the virgin Mary.
He suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried;
he descended to hell….
All Christians, everywhere, since Pentecost have believed God the Father exists as creator of heaven and earth. All Christians everywhere, since Pentecost, have believed that Jesus suffered and sits at the right hand of the Father. All Christians everywhere, since Pentecost, have believed in a hope soon to be realized. Yet I—upon perceiving suffering coming my way, instead of trusting my God, creator of everything (who for some reason allowed this pain to approach me)—instead of recognizing Jesus as one who suffers and who will walk with me through my suffering, instead of looking to the hope of forgiveness of sins and resurrection and life everlasting, I panicked.
Let me be clear: no one should want to suffer. Suffering in this life continues as a result of our existence in a world marred by sin, in a world deeply broken. It’s good that we know suffering is bad, because it stirs our hearts to long for the time coming when Jesus will make all things new.
It makes us work toward a more just world, to alleviate suffering where we can. So, may we not desire suffering, but neither may we run from it. I do not believe panicking at the sight of suffering in the distance pleases God, because it fails to properly testify to the eternal hope which our faith allows. Panicking upon the approach of suffering falls short of faithfully representing Christ to those around us. Because Christ did not panic.
Clearly, hindsight is twenty-twenty.
***
The Martyrdom of Polycarp is an ancient letter written from the church at Smyrna (one of the churches to whom John writes in Revelation) to the church at Philomelium. The missive dates to about 155 AD, barely more than 100 years after Jesus’s crucifixion. In this letter the church in Smyrna describes to the church in Philomelium how they saw the latter’s bishop, Polycarp, executed. They write to tell the church in Philomelium what happened. But even more than that, they write to give their brothers and sisters in Christ a faithful account of a martyrdom consistent with the gospel. The believers in Smyrna want their spiritual siblings in Philomelium to have an example of someone who suffered well, so that they too can be encouraged to suffer well.
According to the members of the church in Smyrna, Polycarp’s execution was consistent with the gospel because he suffered like Jesus suffered. Jesus did not seek out suffering, but he also did not run when it came toward him. Normally at executions, executioners would drive nails through the hands of those about to die to keep the condemned from fleeing. But according to the Smyrneans, Polycarp refused the nails, professing that God would give him endurance. Polycarp would not run. The Smyrneans explained, Polycarp ran not from wild animals devouring him, nor fire encompassing him, nor sword which finally pierced him. Instead, Polycarp prayed to God, saying, “I bless you because you have considered me worthy of this day and hour, so that I might receive a place among the number of the martyrs” (Martyrdom of Polycarp 14.2).
This story is not mere legend. The church in Smyrna existed as a real part of the body of Christ. The church in Philomelium existed as a real part of the body of Christ. Polycarp lived a life as a real Christian. In fact we know that Polycarp actually knew the apostle John! And Polycarp, like many of the apostles and early Christians, was killed for his faith. Because of this, the Smyrneans call the Philomelians to a Christ-likeness similar to that of their bishop. Although Polycarp did not have divinity like Jesus, still, Polycarp had the ability by the Spirit to suffer like Christ. Christlikeness means exhibiting a willingness to suffer as Christ suffered. Suffering well means, like Polycarp and like Christ, when suffering comes, we don’t run, we endure.
No one taught this to me. My church in Dallas has never received a letter from a church in Austin describing in gruesome detail the murder of their lead pastor. Much less, a letter encouraging us to live like the murdered lead pastor. Yet, what do our Bibles proclaim?
The entire Old Testament anticipates the arrival of Christ. The Scriptures speak directly to the suffering which life can bring, written about people who suffered greatly by people who suffered greatly. The earliest Christians watched their friends die. Called “atheists,” “cannibals,” and “incestuous” by outsiders. Killed. And yet, they endured. To live as a Christian means growing to look like Christ and to look like the people who look like Christ. These look like Christ: The ones who suffer and yet endure.
I believe that Jesus, Polycarp, and the early Christians knew hope in a way that we have refused to embrace. Their hope gave them a strength to stand as waves of suffering broke over them, rather than, like me, dashing toward desperation at the first billows of a wave. Yes, I watched as the stars in our universe fell. And yes, when stars fall and wonder fades, you question why you’re even on the rocket ship in the first place. And you grieve. But you grieve with hope.
Suffering well, suffering like Christ, requires hope. Grief, yes. But also hope.
The day I learned that I had miscarried, the last thing I wanted to read was Romans 5:3–5. But as it turns out, its truth was exactly what I needed.