Mothers-in-Waiting: What God Reveals in the Barren Journey

The Bible has three stories about single mothers, five stories about widows, four powerful stories of mothers whose children walked through rebellion, but eight stories of mothers walking through a fertility crisis.

Each of those eight women would most likely tell you that until they held their child in their arms, their heart, mind, and souls struggled to rest, struggled to sit in the joy of the Lord, struggled to unstick themselves from a baby fever malaise. They had a dream, and to be honest, the struggle to move forward into the fullness of life probably seemed overwhelming. 

Each might tell you about the judgement, the censure, the cattiness of living in a culture that judged a woman, not by the secondary or post-graduate degrees she had, the salary she brought into the family, not by her art projects or the quality of her voice, even the flakiness of her pie crust or her ability to run a household, the outreach she does in her community, or even her faith in God, but by her ability to have not just children but sons—barrenness wasn’t a comfortable place to be. 

No one yet talked about loving your neighbor as yourself, though God did promise that the barren woman’s house would be full, though it might not be full in the way she expected. Maybe for a barren woman’s house to be filled, loving your neighbor becomes a priority, the spirit of hospitality pushes aside the baby fever malaise, praising God for the blessings He leaves in the daily changes the focus of the eyes and, by extension, changes the focus of the soul and spirit.

Some prophets—and some current ministers would call the children of God—children through Abraham and adoption through Jesus, they would call us a stiff-necked people. It is through challenges that drop us to our knees that bring us, not just to relationship with God, but surrender of our ways to His ways, our thoughts to His thoughts.  For women, it is often through the challenges of child-bearing and rearing, or lack thereof, that bring us to that place in our relationship, a foundational turning point in many ways.

If each woman were to participate in a round-table discussion at a seminar, I think each woman would talk about drawing near to God, and in the drawing near, how they came to know, to trust, to surrender.

. . . and through it all, He drew these women and their husbands closer to Him

Abraham had dinner with the Lord and His two angels, and Sarah drew close.  

Isaac, though, Isaac prayed to God that Rebecca would conceive. God gave them a double blessing, twins. The power of a praying husband is a powerful thing.

Rachel argued with Jacob, asking her husband to fix it—and Jacob rightly told her God was the only one who could solve her fertility issue. Yet while Jacob was drawing closer to God, Rachel still held on to the household Gods of her father. Maybe God had compassion on Jacob, knowing how much he loved this wife of his. God did hear Rachel. He answered her prayer, but the evidence of her growing closer isn’t there.  (Interesting side note: the wife who did draw closer to God, Leah, she was the wife buried beside him, while Rachel was buried in a roadside grave). What a beautiful thing, that God answers prayers in the hope that His sons and daughters will, indeed, draw closer.

. . . and the Lord heard

God heard their cries. Some of these mothers chased after Him, sought Him, and, in the seeking, found not just Him, but the answer to their heart’s desire: a child. Some God blessed abundantly, giving more than they asked for. In each journey, in each wait, most discovered God’s might compassion.

Sarah would tell you about how God heard her when she was hidden, eavesdropping. She spent a lifetime traveling with her husband, fighting off kings of foreign countries who thought she was her husband’s sister—which really she was, but, well, Abraham wasn’t particularly willing to risk his life to keep her out of the clutches of other men. God did, though. God protected her through those tumultuous years. 

While her husband served dinner to the Lord one night—and two of His angels, God knew she listened at the entrance of the tent. Even though tradition didn’t allow her to sit at the table with them, she discovered He knew what she thought and doubted. She had laughed at His plans, His promises. . . laughed. God even called her out on that laugh of incredulousness, catching her in a lie when she said, “I didn’t laugh at your plans.” 

Oh, Sarah was so afraid when He knew she had laughed at Him. He called her out on it again, saying, “Oh, Yes! You did!”  God didn’t get angry at her impertinence. He didn’t take away what He had promised. In all the times she and Abraham made a mess of things, He never took away what He had promised. He continued loving them unconditionally, shepherding them through those messes.

Sarah would tell you, “I learned nothing is too hard for the Lord! No one is ever too old, too worn out for dreams to be fulfilled. He was so gracious to me in my doubt, my skepticism, my unbelief. God brought me laughter, real laughter. I wanted a son for my husband. Maybe I wanted one for me, too. I never realized the joy a child would bring to me like Isaac did. Oh, how God blessed me! What a good! Good God He is!”

. . . and the Lord did not forget

The most important part of living is in the wait of a prayer sent out. That is a hard thing. It means living as though that prayer is already answered. It means believing in advance of God’s, as though that answer were born before us and living emotionally, physically, spiritually as if those prayers were answered today.

God’s timing is not our timing. Sometimes, it feels as though He has forgotten—the request, the answer, the daughter who asked.

Sometimes the wait is to prepare us for the answer. Maybe, just maybe, in order to handle the answer to those prayers, our strength, trust, faith in Him needs to be battle ready. Abraham and Sarah needed to trust God enough to be willing to give his only son to God—as did Hannah, as did Elizabeth.

Sometimes the wait is for the child to be born into the season for which he was designed.

Samson was born to bring down the Philistines. John was born to prepare a way for the Lord. Jacob was born to wrestle with God, to be the seed to a God-made Ladder God planned for the world to use to come back to Him. Samuel was born to be a Prophet of God, to be a voice telling the world hard things, to point God’s people back to Him. Each mother would need to let go in order for them to fulfill their God-designed plan.

The Lord hears the cry of each mother-in-waiting’s heart. He hears, and He does not forget

. . . and the Lord opened wombs

God, the Creator of the Universe, the leader of Angel Armies who fights our battles, both a gentle shepherd who both disciplines, chastises and saves. Fierce—in retribution and love. He cares just as much about the hearth of the home as He does the fortifications of the city. He breaks the child’s fever, gives sight to the blind. . . opens and closes wombs.

 Maybe, just maybe, if you think He has not heard you, has forgotten you, maybe that is a reminder to go sit with Him, spend time with Him, talk to Him. Like Hannah did. 

Hannah’s husband saw her grief and struggled because he wanted to be enough to fill her heart. She didn’t need a child for her husband’s legacy or to make him love her. He couldn’t have loved her more. He gave her double portions. He gave her sweet words. He asked her, “Aren’t I enough?”

Hannah didn’t care about social stigmas or cultural pressures. Her identity wasn’t in social expectations. Her heart yearned to be a mother. She mourned what she did not have. Filled with anguish and grief, she felt forgotten by God. She was so depressed, she couldn’t eat. Elkanah worried at how down-hearted and deeply troubled she was. 

She wasn’t like Rachel, berating her husband to give her a child. She knew only God could do that.  If Hannah were here today, she would probably tell all of us, the mothers-in-waiting, the mothers with teen challenges, the single mothers who struggle, she would tell us that before we even ask our friends to intercede for us, maybe we need to take our heartbreaks to God first. She took the cry of her heart, and she went to the temple. Not daily. Not weekly. She could only go yearly. 

Hannah would probably remind us of our good fortune, of the blessing of being able to go to God right where we are: in our kitchens, in our SUVs in the school pick up line, in our closets, in the sweat of a hard jog. None of us need wait to have a conversation with God once a year. Hannah would save up a year’s worth of grief, heartache, emptiness. 

Hannah’s heart wouldn’t let her let go of this desire for motherhood. When she got to the Holy Place, to where the presence of God lived, she poured out her heart. God wants us to do that, too, . . . pour out our hearts to Him.

Hannah promised God a gift. That she would give her heart’s desire right back to Him. Just as Abraham was willing to Give his heart’s desire back to God, so, too, did Hannah. God understands that we have to keep Him first in our affections, our hearts. That is the only way we can successfully walk through the answers to the prayers He has planned.

I think if Hannah were here, she’d tell us, “He wants us to do that sometimes, too—to give Him our dreams and let Him fulfill them. Oh, sweet mothers and mother’s in waiting, He doubly blesses those who do that. He made this barren woman’s house full. He didn’t just give me Samuel. He gave me a house full.”

. . . and the Lord filled arms

Just as Tamar’s heart wouldn’t let go of her desire for motherhood, neither did Tamar’s conscience let go of what the law promised. Maybe Tamar was raised in a family that didn’t know the God of Abraham. Maybe, just maybe, entering into the family of Abraham, Tamar learned about God, just like Leah, just like Rebecca—and didn’t want to be a part of any other family Yahweh’s. Whatever the reason, Tamar realized that if her identity is defined through Abraham’s covenant with God, then it was her duty to stand up for what the law promised her, to fight for her right to be included God’s family. 

Determination, a fighting spirit, an out-of-the box approach to problem solving, especially for women, Tamar realized sitting passively wasn’t solving her problem. She didn’t pull anyone else into her story, like Sarah did with Hagar or Rachel and Leah did with their maidservants. No, Tamar didn’t solve her problem vicariously through someone else.

Fertility wasn’t the cause of her childlessness. Circumstances beyond her control created her dilemma.  She’d married Judah’s first born. After he died, she married Judah’s second son. Both brothers had angered God—leaving her in a legal limbo. According to the law, her father-in-law, Judah, should have given her to his youngest son, but, according to some historians, he thought she was just plain bad luck. 

Because there was no grace then, women had to lean into the law, especially women who didn’t have husbands or sons to take care of them. Sometimes God wants us to trust Him and let Him work the plan out on our behalf, sometimes God calls us to action. The law was Tamar’s advocate. She did her due diligence, she stood up for what the law promised, though she did it unconventionally. She worked within the law, and God honored that.

Sometimes, though, God calls each of us to action, to stand up for what is right in His eyes. Tamar did that, and the Creator of the Universe, our Father, had great compassion on her situation. 

The birth of twins was a double blessing, showing that God’s hand was on her. He filled her arms with children.

He filled Pharaoh’s daughter’s arms with a child, too. She saw a child in a basket in the Nile. I imagine her heart jumped with both joy and sorrow at the same time. Jochebed, Moses’ mother knew he needed someplace safe to grow, a safe place she could no longer provide. God broke Pharaoh’s daughter’s heart open to this child, and she became something she thought she’d never be able to be—a mother. When God puts on a heart to draw a child out of an impossible situation, He makes it possible.  

God is a God who fills empty arms.

. . . and each prayer answered gave birth to other prayers and other answers