She had kept the letter of the law. And not only in the outward sense, but she was righteous before God. For years she’d lived a life that was blameless before the Lord. She was not perfect, of course, but Scripture records not one word of reproach about her life.

Still, she was barren. And like the women before her — Sarah, Hannah — she viewed it as a disgrace. And so would have everyone else.

She was of the line of Aaron. She was married to a priest. Why would God not bless her with a child? What had she done? Why were her prayers not answered? And now she, like Sarah, was old.

Yet Elizabeth was faithful. Her life saturated with a very vital and personal love for God.

Can you imagine the wonder she would have felt when Zechariah returned home — mute no less — from serving the Lord in the temple and wrote on a tablet that an angel had visited him and they would have a son? How I wish her response was recorded for us!

Interestingly, Elizabeth chose to hide herself away for five months after she conceived. This was not cultural. It seems she may have kept the news of her pregnancy secret for a while. Perhaps her joy was so profound she wanted to savor it. She wanted to prepare herself for a new work the Lord was going to have her do as she raised a special son. One thing is certain. She worshiped the Lord:

Thus the Lord has done for me in the days when he looked on me, to take away my reproach among people.”

Perhaps it was during this special time of confinement that Mary came to visit with her with her own special news. Elizabeth acknowledges with faith the Lord’s work in both their lives and the two women rejoice together in the Lord. What talks they must have had!

At last, the long-awaited son is placed in Elizabeth’s arms. Tiny and wrinkled, swaddled in a blanket, Elizabeth holds her miracle. A miracle not just meant for her, but the nation of Israel. God had had it all planned from the beginning.

Eight days after her baby’s birth, Elizabeth’s strong faith is once again revealed. Those around her try to name her son after his father, Zechariah, as was the custom.

“No; he shall be called John,” Elizabeth responded simply and resolutely. That was the name Zechariah had communicated to her that the angel had said to give him.

Those gathered didn’t take her word for it and appealed to her husband for the baby’s name. Zechariah responds by agreeing with Elizabeth. Immediately, his speech returns!

All the visiting neighbors are overcome with a holy fear. Something is going on. The news spreads all through the hill country of Judea. Everyone was talking, and this time it is not to ponder or judge Elizabeth’s barrenness, but to exclaim over the mysterious circumstances of the birth of her son. Something special and strange was happening and everyone took notice.

And what of Elizabeth? I think we can assume she raised her child as faithfully as she’s lived out her barren years. That she taught him to live righteous and blameless before the Lord.

Did she live to see him full-grown, a locus-eating prophet living and teaching in the wilderness? Did she know he baptized his cousin, Jesus? Did she hear of his imprisonment and beheading?

We don’t know. But however long her life, I think she continued on in faith. She’d been faithful through the long barren years, how could she not continue faithfully after all she’d seen and personally experienced?

Barrenness may take many forms in life. We all have barren places that lie, seemingly in waste. We may even view them as judgment or punishment from God and wonder why He would inflict us with such pain. Yet, we see God’s sovereign plan is always at work, and in Elizabeth’s case, He had something special in mind. So the question becomes, will I continue in faithfulness, despite the lack I see? Elisabeth Elliot encourages us in her book, Secure in the Everlasting Arms:

In the barren places of my life I can be assured that God is there as He is when life is fruitful, and that the time is coming (give me patience, Lord, to wait!) when He will fulfill His word: “I will put in the desert the cedar and the acacia, the myrtle and the olive. I will set pines in the wasteland, the fir and the cypress together, so that people may see and know, may consider and understand, that the hand of the Lord has done this” (Isaiah 41:19-20).

Barrenness can take many forms. Would you be willing to share a form of “barrenness” in your life?

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When my daughter Savannah turned two in 2010, we entered the dreaded season of pacifier weaning. It was hard. Very hard. She was not happy to lose her precious “Night Night,” as she called it.

The thing is, I understood all too well. You see, it had only been two months since I’d experienced a miscarriage. I knew how difficult it was to face an unexpected change; to lose something dear. And while obviously saying “goodbye” to a pacifier isn’t the same as the death of child, I sympathized with Savannah. I saw my pain in hers.

As she sat on the couch, screaming, “Night Night!” at me, tears flowing from her eyes, I remained there beside her. I offered comfort, but didn’t fix her pain by returning the longed for possession. Instead, I allowed her to grieve, helping her through the process with my presence and empathy. And, because of the relationship we’ve built, she felt the freedom to run to my arms and cry and scream within my embrace.

While at one point, I did say, “You’re a big girl now,” I didn’t attempt to explain to her all the reasons I took her pacifier away. Rather, I knew from personal experience what Joni Eareckson Tada speaks of in her book, When God Weeps: Why Our Sufferings Matter to the Almighty:

When your heart is being wrung out like a sponge, an orderly list of “sixteen good biblical reasons as to why this is happening” can sting like salt in a wound. You don’t stop bleeding that way. A checklist may be okay when you’re looking at your suffering in a rearview mirror, but when you’re hurting in present tense, “Let me explain why this is happening” isn’t always livable….

Besides, answers are for the head. They don’t always reach the problem where it hurts — in the gut and in the heart. When a person is sorely suffering … people are like hurting children looking into the faces of their parents, crying and asking, “Daddy, why?” Those children don’t want explanations, answers, or “reasons why”; they want their daddy to pick them up, pat them on the backs, and reassure them everything is going to be okay.

As I’ve walked through grief and loss, God has done for me what I sought to do for Savannah. He doesn’t remove my sorrow. Most of the time, He doesn’t return what I’ve lost. But He does remain beside me. He allows me to grieve, helping me through the process with His presence and empathy. And, because of the relationship we’ve built, I feel the freedom to run to His arms and cry and scream within His embrace. Joni writes:

God, like a father, doesn’t just give advice. He gives himself. He becomes the husband to the grieving widow (Isaiah 54:5). He becomes the comforter to the barren woman (Isaiah 54:1). He becomes the bridegroom to the single person (Psalm 10:14). He is the healer to the sick (Exodus 15:26). He is the wonderful counselor to the confused and depressed (Isaiah 9:6).

This is what you do when someone you love is in anguish; you respond to the plea of their heart by giving them your heart. If you are the One at the center of the universe, holding it together, if everything moves, breathes, and has it’s being in you, you can do no more than give yourself (Acts 17:28).

And perhaps — just perhaps — He doesn’t offer me specific “reasons why” because that doesn’t, as Joni writes, “reach the problem where it hurts.”

Pacifier weaning was difficult for Savannah — but, just as God is always there for me in my pain, I was there for her during the slow wean of 2010.

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The morning air was still fresh and crisp as we plodded forward on our hike to the peak.

We had barely begun our ascent when my five-year-old arched his neck, pointed his chin to the sky, and spotted the goal at hand.

“We’re almost there, Mom,” he concluded.

His first time ever walking this trail, he had no idea what lay ahead. He knew not of the steep incline, the massive boulders, the ladders, the narrow paths, the loose rocks.

He had his eye on the prize, and in his mind, we were almost there.

I admired his optimism.

In fact, it was far better that he didn’t know what was to come. I have often been grateful for my own naivete as I’ve walked the path of life. Had I known what trials loomed in the distance, I may not have had the courage or the willpower to keep walking forward. But isn’t that what trusting God is all about? It’s relying on His grace to help us walk forward in faith, not knowing what is around the next bend, yet believing that it will get us closer to Him in the end. It’s about not depending on our motivation or strength, but resting wholly on Him to carry us each step of the way.

About halfway up, my talkative walking companion craned his neck again and eyed the summit.

“Mom,” he began, “when we get to the top, only heaven will be above us. And when we get to heaven, only God will be above us.”

You gotta love the reasoning of a five-year-old mind.

His train of thought caused my own thinking to veer onto his track, and I began to contemplate heaven and the road to eternity.

I watched the myriad of hikers on the same path upon which my soles trod — the tattooed ones, the pregnant ones, the hippy ones, the prissy ones. The fit ones, the huffing and puffing ones, the ones with fancy cameras, and the ones with miniature schnauzers. As varied as the body of Christ, yet all with the same goal in mind.

So it is in the walk with Christ. For some, the journey may be easier; for others, every step may seem a sweat. But the final destination is the same, so long as we stick to the path marked out for us.

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