Barren: unable to
have children
synonyms: infertile,
sterile, childless
This
isn’t a word we hear much nowadays. You probably haven’t heard it yet today.
But, I was raised on the King James version of the Bible. “Barren” is the word
they use. And, as a 17-year-old sitting in a surgeon’s office listening as the
words going back and forth between him and my mother faded into the fuzzy
distance, only one word became clear in my mind:
Barren.
Barrenness
in the Bible is never good. This word always accompanies stories with emotions
like deep sorrow, depression, and inescapable pain. Barrenness was a curse.
Women who were barren turned to trickery, manipulation, or lies to try to get
the one thing they so desperately craved: a baby. Those women were unloved.
Outcasts. Unable to fulfill their “role” as a woman. I did NOT want to be barren.
Now, this
is most certainly not the word the surgeon used to describe my condition.
Truthfully, I think most doctors try to avoid saying something so concrete.
(Especially when they are talking to a 17-year-old!) I was not yet truly barren in the literal sense, but I felt
it.
Barren: empty
of meaning or value.
Above is
another definition of the word "barren," and no matter what truths
you shoved my way, this is how I felt. Empty. Empty of meaning. Empty of value.
Suddenly, the future I had planned on, accepted as something that would surely
happen, dreamed about... Suddenly, it was not sure. A shadow had been cast onto
my dream. And my dream, my life, felt… barren. I was raised in a culture where
pregnancy, giving birth, and babies - lots of babies - were the biggest blessings imaginable. Much like the Biblical culture I mentioned above, this was taught
as one of the most beautiful gifts in a woman's life. And, while my parents
never told me I was broken or second-rate, cursed or unloved, I still felt this
shadow very deeply. I felt like I might miss out on the "best" path
for my future. I might be one of those women. One of those women that everyone
felt sorry for because she was missing such an amazing blessing.
Fast-forward
seven years to another doctor’s office. This time I sat with my husband holding
my hand. We were talking this time. We were telling the doctor that we had made
the decision. We had chosen our treatment option. We had literally chosen for
me to become barren - infertile - forever. But that second definition? The one
that said “emptiness.” The one that said “without value.” That definition was
nowhere to be found in that room. Not in my thinking. Not in my husband’s. Not
in our emotions.
You see,
God took me on a special journey beginning that summer day. That day as a
teenager when I nearly cried trying not to scream at the surgeon that I didn’t
care that “my scars wouldn’t even show,” and that “I could still wear that cute
bikini.” All I wanted was for someone to understand that the scars were
internal, and that I would gladly trade the “bikini body” for the assurance
that I could carry a baby inside of it. And He gently led me, His beloved
child, until I understood that His purpose for me was far greater than the
ability to give birth to a child.
I went
through lots of stages, I suppose. And I wrestled with God. I did not like
where I thought He was leading me and so I took the bit in my mouth and ran. I
fought to get married as young as possible – so that I might have a chance at
children before the endometriosis became too severe. Then I decided a life of
ministry as a single woman was definitely the path for me. Then I did get
married. Then I loved children that were given into my care for a time, tucked
into my heart, but not my home. And at every stage, every turn in the path, my
God was teaching me, showing me, that His ways were not my ways. That His
thoughts were so much higher than my own.
That He is not a God of barrenness.
And He
led me. He showed me that trying to force His hand only brought destruction and
that He was all-powerful in my life. Then, He became the only thing left in my
life and I learned that I could throw myself into His care with abandon. Then,
He asked me to trust Him… by trusting one of His men… my husband… and I found
that I had to be vulnerable. I found that walking with my God through pain and
with nowhere to hide showed me evidences of His grace that I would not see
otherwise. Then, He taught me about “today.” That every second of the day
counts and that He knows the time of influence I have in another’s life. And it
is enough. Because he is sovereign over that life as well. Because He is enough
for them just as He is enough for me. And, at last, He showed me children.
Children who desperately needed what I longed to provide.
And step
by step, little by little, I learned that, in Christ, the word “barren” just
didn’t apply to me. Yes, the technical “infertile” definition may apply, but
that definition has no control over my life. Or my dreams. Or my emotions. Or
my God. It’s just not what God created me to be. And how my earthly, broken
body functions has nothing to do with the fullness of my life. The abundance of
my joy. The adventure with my God.
Now, if you know me, if you saw my
family Christmas photo, if you happened to pass me in the grocery store, you
might be tempted to feel angry with me. Of course I can write this post! Of
course I can say that I'm no longer barren! You could shout at me and tell me
that "of course" I can be joyful. I have children! And I do. God, in
His amazing sovereignty saw fit to give me 3 gorgeous girls and the opportunity
to love many other sweet kiddos in my home. But that day. That day in the
doctor's office with my husband where we made one of the hardest choices of our
lives to date. On that day, I had no children. And on the day of my surgery, I
had no children. And throughout the healing process, I had no children.
And so,
even though I became "barren" in the literal sense, I was not a
woman empty, or without meaning. I was not an outcast. I was not unloved. And I
was living out the role that God had given to me as a woman. As His daughter.
As His child.
You see, God doesn't call His
daughters to be "mothers." He calls us to be disciples and to make
disciples. Motherhood is definitely a high calling and God does call many women
to fulfill their calling through motherhood. But that isn't the only way and it
isn't the "best" way. God's best is individual and personal. He cares
for His children too much to have a "one-size-fits-all" plan. And,
ladies, God's plan is bigger than this broken world and our broken bodies. I
used to feel like my path was blessed in spite of the fact that I couldn't
fulfill "God's best plan," when, in fact, my path is blessed because
God has chosen me as His daughter. Period. I used to long to "just be
normal," but now I rejoice in my unique path, my special family and
circumstance. I rejoice because God has specifically led and gifted me for this
path. He chose me to reflect His glory and who am I to argue with the
"how."
I was
blessed. I am blessed.
Not
barren.
