“It’s a special thing to be pregnant during advent.” This was my wife Rebekah’s reflection to me in the week after we found out she was expecting our first child. She and I had been trying for a little while to begin growing our family, and so when she had a positive pregnancy test just a few weeks after Thanksgiving we were both nervous and excited. Throughout the next week we began making plans: When would the child actually arrive? What doctor’s appointments needed to be made? How would we tell our families? We were especially excited to tell my parents, as this would be their first grandchild, and though they never pressured us, I knew they were getting a little impatient!
We were already well into December, and so our new baby preparations coincided with our Christmas preparations. Decorating, church events, choir rehearsals—all the usual Christmas activities took on new meaning. For one, this would be the last advent season with just the two of us. But, as my wife noted, her pregnancy also brought new meaning to the Christmas story we were celebrating. One of the songs we were singing in choir that year was Elaine Hagenberg’s beautiful arrangement of “To Thee My Heart I Offer” (if you’ve never heard it, I highly encourage you to take a moment and listen). The song’s second verse succinctly summarizes the core of the Christmas message:
What brought Thee to the manger, O Christ-child sweet and dear?
Thy love for me a stranger, be Thou ever near.
O Lord how great thy perfect Love, that reaches from the heavens above.
Thy love for us, by sin defiled, that made Thee, God, a child.
For all of our lives my wife and I have believed this message, but it took on new dimensions as we heard it again while expecting our own child. I was amazed anew that the all-powerful God of the universe would humble himself to become not just a human, but a tiny, helpless baby like the one my wife was now carrying. I was struck also by the great love the Father showed by sending his son knowing that his coming as a baby was a first step on the road to the cross, a road made necessary by my own sin.
Our joyful advent reflections were to be short lived. Just a week after we found out that Rebekah was pregnant, she woke up on a Saturday morning feeling that something was not right. We met with her doctor that day, and while we would not get test results until the next morning, she told us there was a very high probability that Rebekah was experiencing a miscarriage.
The rest of that day was hard. This early in the pregnancy there was nothing that could be done but let the miscarriage happen, and so we went about our day. We attended a holiday-themed Lego convention, grabbed lunch, and had another couple from the church over for dinner. We hadn’t told anyone Rebekah was pregnant yet, and so it felt as though we had no one to share this with either. Since we did not have the official test results there was a small spark of hope; perhaps this would pass and everything would be fine. But we both knew that was likely a fool’s hope.
Sunday morning the test results came back, and the miscarriage was confirmed. We really did not know what or how to feel. We were disappointed, and scared; Rebekah’s doctor had not provided much advice beyond “let it happen.” We wondered if there was something we could have done to prevent this. At the same time, we weren’t overwhelmed by sorrow, and this made us feel guilty. We had known about the pregnancy for such a short time that we had barely adjusted to the idea that we would be having a child. Losing him so quickly made it seem almost unreal. Wasn’t miscarriage supposed to be devastating? Why then were we not breaking down? Was something wrong with us that a tiny part was relieved that the giant changes in life that we had anticipated would not be coming?
Since we were scheduled to sing in our church choir that morning, we decided we would still participate. We were torn between wanting to be alone and wanting to be around our church family, even if we were not sure how to process our conflicting emotions. Outside our pastor, we didn’t tell anyone else what was going on that day. Nevertheless, God was with us, and that morning he spoke through the words of the songs we sang in choir. We had been rehearsing for weeks already, and the words should have been familiar. But, as I sang that Sunday morning, it was like I saw them for the first time. I have already spoken about how meaningful the second verse of “To Thee My Heart I Offer” had been when Rebekah was pregnant during advent. Now, God drew my attention to the final verse:
Let me be Thine forever, O Christ-child sweet and dear;
Uphold me with Thy mercy, be Thou ever near.
Thy hand bestows Thy gifts to me and all I have, I offer Thee.
My heart, my soul and all I own; Let these be Thine alone.
As I tried to sing these words, they changed to a prayer not for me, but for our child: “Let him be thine forever, O Christ-child sweet and dear.” I was completely helpless to prevent the death of this child, but there was one thing I could do: surrender him to God. I could not be there for him, but I could ask God to “Uphold him with Thy mercy, be Thou ever near.” I do not presume to know what happens to embryos that die before birth, but I also don’t need to. I merely have to trust in the God who loves us so much that he gave his own son for the sins of the world. He is the one in control, and I trust that his plans for my child are good, even when I don’t know what they are.
The second part of the verse was a powerful reminder that “my” child was never really mine. He was a gift from God, bestowed by his hand. I thought that my responsibility would be to raise him, but God determined that for this child, my responsibility was to offer him back. I have been a Christian most of my life. Though my faith waxes and wanes, I already work to surrender heart and soul to God. Would I be able to surrender my child as well? Could I say, along with Job, “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21, ESV)?
Through the Lord’s strength, this is what I strive to do. Since I could do nothing to save him, I surrender my child to the one who became a child for me. His love, mercy, and compassion are more than I can fathom, and while it is good and appropriate to lament the loss of our child, I do so while continuing to trust the God who is ever near.
Our experience with miscarriage raised many fearful questions: would Rebekah be able to become pregnant again? Would we ever be able to grow our family? Was there something wrong with one or both of us that would prevent us from producing a healthy child? In his mercy, God did not leave us with those questions for long. Just a few months later, Rebekah was pregnant again, and as I type this, I can hear her caring for our son, now three weeks old.
I pray that our son continues to grow healthy and strong. I pray that he will be successful in life. Most of all, I pray that he comes to know the Savior and gives his own heart and soul to God. But, as we again move through the advent season, I can hear God reminding me that he is not mine. Our son is a gift from God, a gift that we must surrender back to God to use as he wills.
In discussions of reproductive technologies, it is common to hear Christians talk about how techniques such as IVF lead to the commodification of children, turning them into products to be bought and sold rather than gifts to be freely accepted. I share this concern, but would also remind us that even naturally conceived children can become a commodity. No matter how they are conceived, parents can use their children to fulfill their own familial ideals, impart on them their own hopes, dreams, and aspirations, or even see them as long-term security, someone to occupy their time in retirement and care for them in their old age.
Treating children as a gift from God is a choice, a choice that must be made continually. As my son gets older, I have a feeling that choice will only get harder. Just as I need to continually surrender my own life to God, I will need to surrender my son’s, reminding myself that he is a gift and I am but a steward. My job is train him up in the way he should go, trusting him to God’s love, mercy, and compassion. And so, my prayer continues: my heart, my soul, and all I own—even my only son—let him be thine alone.