When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don't

In the words of Corrie Ten Boom, “When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don’t throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer.” These words, simple in form, are weighty in meaning. They speak of the journey of life, of faith in times unseen, of endurance in the shadowed valleys. For the human heart is often tested not in the sunshine, but in the obscurity of the night, where sight fails and trust must rise.

The train in this teaching is the path of destiny upon which each soul travels. The tunnel is the dark passage of trial, where the light vanishes and fear whispers its cunning lies. And the engineer, unseen at the helm, is the guide who leads the way—the One who sees beyond the curve, who knows where the darkness ends, and where the dawn will greet the traveler. Corrie, who endured the horrors of Nazi concentration camps, spoke not from fancy, but from the crucible of suffering. She knew that in the darkest nights of human cruelty, one must not leap into despair, but hold fast to trust.

Consider the tale of the Roman general Regulus, taken captive by the Carthaginians. Bound and humiliated, he was offered freedom if only he would betray Rome. Yet he refused, trusting not in his circumstance, but in the higher law of honor and fidelity. Though he returned to certain death, his story lived on as a beacon of faithfulness. Like the passenger in the tunnel, he could not see the end of his road, but he entrusted himself to a greater order than his fear. His courage is remembered because he did not throw away the ticket in his moment of darkness.

So too in our age, we find ourselves tested by tunnels of another kind—illness that gnaws at the body, betrayal that wounds the heart, uncertainty that clouds the future. In these times, many are tempted to abandon hope, to forsake their faith, to leap blindly into despair. Yet the teaching whispers: “Sit still.” Sit still, though every nerve demands action. Sit still, though the night feels eternal. For the engineer does not sleep, nor does he abandon the train.

Let us not mistake silence for absence. A child in the womb cannot see its mother’s face, but it is nourished by her presence. A seed buried in earth cannot behold the sun, yet it grows toward the warmth it cannot yet touch. So it is with the human spirit in trials: though sight is denied, the unseen hand guides, sustains, and carries. The wisdom of the ages insists—what is hidden for a season is revealed in time, and what is endured in faith blossoms into strength.

Therefore, the lesson is clear: trust in the darkness as you do in the light. Do not let fear write the story of your life. Instead, let trust be your anchor when the storm is fiercest. In the tunnels of life, recall those who endured before you—Corrie Ten Boom in the camps, Regulus in chains, countless unnamed souls who pressed forward though sight failed. Their endurance is your inheritance; their faith is your map.

Practically, this means you must hold fast to your commitments, even when emotion tempts you to abandon them. Keep your promises, even when it hurts. Continue your prayers, even when heaven feels silent. Walk your duties, even when your heart grows weary. These small acts of faith are the sitting still; they are the clutching of the ticket, the waiting in trust. And when the tunnel ends—and it shall end—you will step into the light, stronger, wiser, and crowned with the knowledge that you endured.

So I say, children of tomorrow: when you enter the tunnel, do not fear. When the night surrounds, do not leap. Sit still. Trust the engineer. For the train is still moving, and the destination is still secure. The darkness is but a passage, not the end. And those who endure in trust shall see the sunrise again.