Three years ago today (January 6^th) I heard the four words that my heart had been longing to hear for years…

I think I’m pregnant.

As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I smiled at my wife, as shocked by the news as her choosing to tell me at 6:15 in the morning. Every possible emotion flooded over me.

Joy. Excitement. Anxiety. Fear. Hope. Relief.

Finally. Finally, the Lord had answered our desperate prayers and had gifted us with a baby.

Over two dozen months of disappointment had brought both of us to a breaking point. Seventy-hour work weeks (for her) and endless PhD seminar papers (for me) compounded the monthly stress. Anyone who has struggled with infertility, especially ‘unexplained’ infertility, knows that the mental, emotional, and spiritual exhaustion drains everything out of you.

We struggled with bitterness creeping into our hearts every time we watched another friend announce their pregnancy. We’d cringe and give an awkward smile every time someone asked us, “So when are Y’ALL going to have a baby?” We wrestled with the harsh reality that ‘our time’ may never come.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I would coach myself each month. “Don’t get upset if it’s negative,” I’d say while impatiently waiting for results. But how could I NOT be hopeful? How could I not be upset? That’s like asking me to drive by Sonic without stopping for a Coke during Happy Hour. Impossible. Yet, each time that pregnancy test showed one line instead of two, or worse, digitally spelled out ‘not pregnant,’ I just wanted to run away. Where? I have no idea. Just away.

But this time it was different. Four positive tests later confirmed that we were in fact pregnant. Finally.

We kept it to ourselves for what seemed like forever. We told a few trusted friends and decided to get through the first trimester before we would announce to our families. Each night we laid in bed – thankful – still somewhat in disbelief at this new reality. We would laugh almost simultaneously and say “I can’t believe this is happening.” Each night I would put my hand on her stomach and pray over our child – that he or she would develop into a young person who loved and honored Christ and that the Lord would prepare us to lead them to love and serve Him. Each night brought new questions and excitement as we considered what it would be like to bring a child into this world.

Just a few weeks later, though, I heard four more words that no parent ever wants to hear…

There is no heartbeat.

No sleep to rub from my eyes. I was fully awake. A punch to the gut is the only phrase that can accurately describe the stomach-churning ache all over my body. I wanted to scream, but I was too numb to even muster enough strength for that.

Tears welled. No words. Just weeping. Her hand in mine. Weeping.

I hurt even more for my wife, though.

Here’s a woman who spends her days joyously bringing new life into the world, celebrating alongside her patients as they welcome a new addition to their family. A woman who would do ANYTHING medically possible to make sure her patients’ babies arrived here as healthy and safely as possible. But there’s nothing either one of us can do. Helpless. In the same examination room where many of her patients would rejoice at the first blips on the ultrasound machine, we see and hear no sign of life.

In the chill of that moment, the Lord spoke to my broken heart. Not an audible voice, to be certain, but a penetrating question my spirit heard clearly.

Will you still worship me?

The question hung in the air like a thick morning fog.

What do you mean will I still worship You? How can You even ask that? No! Our babies are gone. Both of them. Just like that. Gone!

Of course, I know that’s NOT the right answer – theologically, personally, professionally, for a myriad of reasons. But it’s the honest answer. The pain was too fresh, too deep.

The question hurt. But it was the question I needed. It’s the question we all need.

After three years, I know even more now what the Lord was asking of me then. He wasn’t looking for pleasantries from a pulpit or closed eyes and raised hands from a pew. He wasn’t interested in a seminary paper on the doctrine of sin and the problem of evil. He wasn’t impressed with my most recent slate of speaking engagements. He wasn’t even waiting for me to quote Scripture back to Him.

He wanted to know if, in the quietness of my pain, was He enough?

Would I still see Him as glorious when His goodness seemed so far away?

Would I still trust His faithfulness in the midst of my fearfulness?

Would I still say ‘yes’ to His directions even if He says ‘no’ to me being a daddy?

Would He still be my most supreme affection even if I never got to hold my babies?

I’m convinced that the most dangerous temptation, at least in my own life, is the ease at which I offer my heart’s affection and my mind’s attention to the gifts of God rather than the gift-Giver Himself. More bluntly, I’m embarrassed by how often my obedience to the Lord is heavily influenced by whether or not I think He’s given me what I want.

But by His grace, I’m thankful that His faithfulness is not dependent on my faithfulness to Him. When my doubts cloud my ability to worship, His grace is sufficient and His power is made perfect through weakness (2 Cor. 12:9). When my disappointment leaves me speechless in prayer, the Spirit intercedes on my behalf (Rom. 8:26). And when I wonder if He understands my pain of loss, especially of a child, I simply turn to the cross.

Not a day goes by I don’t miss my babies. The pain never goes away – you simply learn to live with a new normal. But because He is near to the broken-hearted, I know that He is enough.

He always has been. He always will be.