This fall, we drove our youngest daughter 1,600 miles away from home to begin her high school education at one of our church synod’s schools. We did the same thing with our first three daughters, sending them excruciatingly far away at the age of 14. Explaining this choice to others is almost impossible. I can see them mentally sifting through the possibilities: “Hmm, that kid must need boot camp,” or “Those parents must not really love their kid.” Finally, they offer up the least offensive reaction they can muster: “She must be so excited to live in a dorm!”

No, definitely not, and not yet.

We send our children because we want them to stay close to Jesus. We want them to continue to plumb the depths of his Word. To develop lifelong Christian friends. To be taught by adults who confess Christ, not ridicule him. We want their ears and hearts to be filled with Jesus before they enter an unbelieving world that will try to drown God out.

But it’s a sacrifice.

Sometimes families do hard things for good reasons. Sometimes hard things are thrust on them.

In Mary’s final term of pregnancy, she had to do a hard thing. A census was ordered by the Roman government. Everyone was to be counted in their ancestral towns. Mary and Joseph had to head to Bethlehem, over 90 miles away. They must have shared a long look—an ancient prophecy spoke of that small city: “But you, Bethlehem… out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times” (Micah 5:2). Clearly, God was maneuvering events so that his words could be fulfilled.

But why did it have to be so hard?

My family’s 1,600-mile trip took 27 hours. We had smooth roads, a vehicle, and comfortable beds on every leg of the trip. Mary’s trip could have taken up to a week on foot, through the rocky territory of wild animals and outlaws, through dust storms and rainstorms… and all this in her third trimester. No bath or mattress at the end of a long day. And when they finally reached Bethlehem, it was so crowded that they were forced to seek lodging in a stable.

Many people object to the idea of a loving God who allows suffering. Even Christians sometimes measure his love by the good in our lives, not the bad. When we struggle, our doubts magnify. We might think God’s not real. God doesn’t really love us.

But remember God’s Son. From his first breath in a stable to his last breath on a Roman cross, Jesus identified as a humble servant, as much a Savior for the lost and lowly as for the privileged and powerful, accessible to all.

Why do our Christian lives include hardship? One reason is to help us form that same identity: we are God’s servants. We can meet others in their struggles because we’ve been there too. We can serve without counting the cost.