Patrick and I zipped up to the city today to do a little shopping while our nieces stayed home with the kids. We listened to a podcast while we drove, and the host talked about how barrenness in the scriptures is a metaphor for hopelessness. No life, and no prospect of life.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
It took my breath away.
Barrenness.
I have known the ache and sting of being barren.
Of longing for life, longing to be a mother, watching others' arms fill up while mine were so empty. So very empty.
The shame of enduring the casual comments: just don't try so hard; or God will send children when you're ready for them.
The medical scrutiny; new types of tests and exams that I could never pass.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
Which means, of course, that eventually they weren't.
Eventually, another heart started beating where no heart had been.
Eventually, God showed up to meet the deepest longing of their hearts.
And those mothers, who had been sick with hope deferred, saw their hopes embodied and kissed those sweet faces and welcomed new life where no life had been.
And of course I couldn't help but think of the world, longing for a Messiah. Longing for redemption, restoration, longing to know God. And in the waiting, silence. The prophets didn't speak. No psalmists sang. And then, in the weariness, Mary bloomed with life without any natural cause - hope rushing and swelling, born to the whole world, born to heal and love and rescue - the hope of nations.
I don't have much to add.
I just wanted to share this, in case you might be feeling hopeless, daunted, overwhelmed.
In case some corner of your life is a stab of emptiness.
The mothers of the first three generations of our faith were barren.
I was barren.
The weary world was barren.
But we did not stay that way.
We did not stay that way.
Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.
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