ARTICLES BY COLLEEN CHAO
September 29, 2006 You use pain so wisely,With infinite care,Knowing right whereTo push and pull and tearAnd break and burnUntil I’ve finally learnedWith all my being to yearnFor You only. Merciful undoing:This pain sets me free.My blind eyes now can seeUnspeakable mystery—This death leads to life,No shortcut through strife;With my good in mindYou’ve afflicted me.
When I was a child, my mother passed along to me a deep appreciation for the life story and writings of Elisabeth Elliot. As a teenager I read her book Passion and Purity, convinced that my own Jim Elliot was right around the corner. In my twenties I often read from Keep A Quiet Heart as I wrestled with both depression and singleness. In my thirties I clung to Elisabeth’s mantra, “Do the next thing” as chronic illness made a home in my body and altered my life ambitions. And I spent the summer I was 42—recovering from chemotherapy and major surgery—savoring every last word of Suffering is Never for Nothing. When Elisabeth passed in 2015, I dug up an old picture I’d taken with her at a speaking engagement 20 years before. Although there had been seasons when I’d tired of her crisp-and-conventional style (after all, she was from my grandparents’ generation, not mine)—and I’d let her books collect dust on my shelves—I looked at the picture with a heart full of love and gratitude, feeling that I’d known her well. Little did I know how little I knew her. Last month I picked up a copy of Ellen Vaughn’s new authorized biography, Becoming Elisabeth Elliot—a captivating look at the woman behind the best-selling books, the lauded story, and the global speaking engagements…. as well as the criticisms. (My friend A.K. is not the only one who spent time with Elisabeth and left with the impression that she was rude and aloof.) Thanks to Vaughn’s writing prowess, laborious legwork, and extensive use of Elisabeth’s personal journals, I felt as if I were shadowing Elisabeth from her birth to her early thirties (Vaughn is writing a second volume to tell the story of Elisabeth’s later years). I vividly saw, smelled, heard, even tasted Elisabeth’s world—from her scrupulous East Coast childhood home to the perilous jungles of her twenties. I felt her agonies and ecstasies, her terrific triumphs and heart-wrenching failures. I wept through words that painted Elisabeth so human—so like me. She too wrestled with depression, a flawed personality, broken relationships, and weariness. Elisabeth wrote, “It is not the level of our spirituality that we can depend on. It is God and nothing less than God, for the work is God’s and the call is God’s and everything is summoned by Him and to His purposes, our bravery and cowardice, our love and our selfishness, our strengths and our weaknesses.” Not only was Elisabeth well acquainted with Weakness, she was also on a first-name basis with Mystery. Vaughn shows how the cumulative loss and death and “unfruitfulness” of Elisabeth’s twenties transformed her from the once “dutiful, devout . . . high-achieving new missionary” into a seasoned woman of tenacious faith who didn’t mind asking the tough questions. Her unresolved sufferings—and the God she came to know intimately in the midst of them—laid the bedrock of her lifelong message that captivated millions around the world. She wrote, “Obviously, God has chosen to leave certain questions unanswered and certain problems without any solution in this life, in order that in our very struggle to answer and solve we may be shoved back, and back, and eternally back to the contemplation of Himself, and to complete trust in Who He is. I’m glad He’s my Father.” While Elisabeth is best known for her husband’s martyrdom and her consequent decision to live with the tribal people who murdered him—and although she did write a number of best-sellers and travel the world speaking to thousands—Vaughn beautifully demonstrates that the most celebrated parts of Elisabeth’s life were “just part of her story. For Elisabeth, as for all of us, the most dramatic chapters may well be less significant than the daily faithfulness that traces the brave trajectory of a human life radically submitted to Christ.” Elisabeth had boring jobs and monotonous days that threatened to suck the life out of her; she endured appalling living conditions in both New York City and Ecuador; she faced long, hard years isolated from dear friends and family; she waited half a decade for the man-of-her-dreams to decide whether or not he was going to marry her. And then after that man finally married her, he was killed 27 months later, leaving her with a toddler and the formidable task of running a jungle station. As I devoured page after page of Vaughn’s biography, I began to realize that while I’d known the indomitable Elisabeth through her testimony, her books, and her messages, I’d not known the flesh-and-bone “Betty” I was discovering through Vaughn’s careful unveiling of her life. Vaughn doesn’t force any preconceived ideas of Elisabeth—in her own words, she wanted “to lay bare the facts of Elisabeth Elliot’s case” by using Elisabeth’s own words, and the words of “so many who knew her well.” Vaughn does this masterfully. As a result, this biography will appeal to a broad audience—not only to those who grew up with Elisabeth Elliot as a household name, but also to a young new generation who asks, “Elisabeth who?” This article also appears on ERLC.com.
Singleness is a long hike up a steep hill. Chances are, you’re either on the hike yourself or you know someone who is. Everyone has stories to tell of it. (It’s that kind of hike. It’s that kind of hill.) I’m so grateful for my 34-year ascent up that Beautiful Arduous Hill. It was harder than I could hope to describe, and I’m left with some hardy callouses, a few long-term injuries, and a smidge of PTSD. But I look back at that climb as one of the greatest experiences God has ever entrusted to me. I’ve been married for nine years now (I didn’t hike nearly as far as some), yet I still smell strongly of the earth and pine of that hill. Contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t “arrive” when I finally married; life didn’t “begin” when I got a ring on my finger and a baby in my womb. The path altered significantly, yes—but the Goal and the Guide remained the same. I think often on my singleness, even occasionally dream about it still. In a crowd of people, I find myself drawn to the woman who also knows the ways of The Hill. In fact, my own story has become inextricably woven into the stories of many single women I’ve met over the years. I’ve learned that we each shoulder a unique load; we each view the hill through different eyes. Truth is, you could talk to a hundred different single women and get a hundred different versions of this hike. But all of us have agreed on one thing in particular: We’re not meant to go it alone. We’re meant for joyful relationship with Christ and his people. Our one great good is God himself, and one of the best ways we can experience him is by being in relationship with each other. The psalmist David put it this way: I said to the Lord, “You are my Lord; I have nothing good besides you.” As for the holy people who are in the land, they are the noble ones. All my delight is in them. (Psalm 16:2-3, emphasis mine) These two things can sound contrary, but in fact they perfectly coexist: God is our only good, and his people are all our delight. And an uphill climb requires gargantuan good and strong doses of delight. This relational joy we share with each other and our God enables us to do feats otherwise impossible. And, at least in my own experience, singleness sometimes felt like an impossible feat. I knew it was part of God’s good plan for me, and it was the conduit of incredible blessings in my life, but it wasn’t what I had prepared for, and it definitely wasn’t “the norm” in my social circles—hence the uphill feeling. The problem was actually a good one: as a single woman who loved Jesus and his church, I held a high view of marriage, sex, and childbearing. I was convinced God is the creator and sustainer of these beautiful gifts—gifts he chooses to give most women. I also understood that marriage would not be the answer to all of my problems. And I wasn’t duped by the notion that a man (or children) would fulfill my deepest desires. Only Christ could do that. But when almost every last friend of mine had made it to the altar, and I was still standing on the sidelines with half a dozen bridesmaid dresses in hand—I felt somewhat disoriented, even occasionally distressed, as I figured out how to function outside the natural order of things. I deeply wanted what God wanted for me, and on those days when I didn’t want it, I asked him to help me want it. But I was a square peg in a round hole. I didn’t know how to fit into a world made for couples and families. ~ ~ ~ It wasn’t that I lacked friends. I had an ever-expanding social circle and more relationships than I knew what to do with. But for all practical purposes, I was flying solo. I paid my own bills, made my own meals, haggled with the repairman at the car shop, held down high-pressured jobs, cleaned and calendared and dealt with conflict all by myself. (Day after day, year after year.) Even though I was blessed with friends and family and roommates who shared in some of my life tasks, I bore a tremendous amount of responsibility alone. One of my former roommates, Sarah, expressed my feelings perfectly: “The hardest part of being single,” she said, “is knowing I’m no one’s first priority.” Sarah was not one to view singleness as suffering, but she grieved the reality that there wasn’t one “main person” to do life with and for. I’ve had many single friends echo this sentiment. I felt it keenly myself. What a bizarre experience it was to spend my days in the company of so many wonderful people, to be busy and fulfilled doing work that mattered—yet all the while feel so… on my own. But to every grief there is a gift, and the absence of a “first priority relationship” afforded me the time and motivation to seek Christ in focused ways. While some of my married friends confessed they were struggling to perceive God’s presence—I was experiencing his nearness in almost palpable ways. He was my First Love, and I felt like his beloved. As much as I didn’t like the Apostle Paul’s enthusiasm for singleness, I had to admit he was right: I was enjoying a unique and beautiful devotion to Christ (1 Corinthians 7:32-35). ~ ~ ~ Over the years, I came to be known as a strong, self-sufficient woman (an identity not without its own issues), but still there was this underlying tone in many people’s comments to me—an unintentional message that I was not as “complete” or mature as my married and mommied friends. We’ve all been guilty of spouting folly in our eagerness
We met when we were gangly 8- and 9-year-old girls. Our small church and a mutual love for rollerskating were the only bonds we needed to forge a simple friendship. Had you asked us back then if we’d still be friends 32 years later, Karen and I would have giggled in disbelief. In fact, we giggled a lot. Karen was eventually banned from Saturday night sleepovers at my house—something about the all-night laughing fest wasn’t conducive to my dad’s sermon preparations for Sunday morning. We saw each other through the awkward growing-up years, with Christmas pageants and lock-ins and beach trips and potlucks weaving our childhood friendship into something more comfortable and familiar. Then suddenly college came, and there were degrees to be had and new friends to be made and husbands to be found. We ended up with the degrees and the friends, but without the husbands we trekked into the unknown as single working women. Our lives didn’t look like we’d always pictured they would. But we were young and energetic and the world was our oyster, so one day we emailed each other from work: “Let’s move to Washington, D.C.!” And we did. We packed up our belongings and headed east. Karen worked her way to the White House; I had to return home to California. My return meant we were now long-distance friends for the first time in our lives. In the decade that followed, we bridged the gap by flying coast-to-coast to visit each other several times a year. Then the waiting years were upon us. We watched 30 come and go without a boyfriend in sight. Conversations were full of “Where have all the godly men gone?!” and “Is there a man famine?!” We learned to work hard to support ourselves, to make transient homes, to live with a variety of roommates. Karen was Director of White House Personnel and met with heads of state. I was an English teacher and an editor, trying to inspire teenagers and wrangle words into submission. Karen traveled the world and filled up her passport—I lived vicariously through her exciting stories. And oh could she tell stories. (Still can. There isn’t a better storyteller than Karen.) She made me laugh by the hour with her accounts of high-fiving President Bush; walking across Spain on foot, with blisters the size of tennis balls; and that time she accidentally stepped into an unmarked van and ended up at FBI headquarters on lockdown (in her red heels, of course). We both grew social circles the size of small countries, both struggled to find balance and the courage to say “no,” both had an unhealthy obsession with coffee and late nights and Les Mis. Then the changing years came. It had been so sweet to share our single years together, to have someone else “get it,” that we’d prayed marriage would come at the same time for us both. It didn’t. I called Karen the night I got engaged. My heart anguished over it. I knew what it was to feel “left behind,” to wait long and fight for hope while everyone else walked the aisle. But Karen showed me a love so selfless, so freely given at her own expense. She celebrated God’s faithfulness to me, showered me with bridal gifts, and spoke encouragement into my new marriage with Eddie. She celebrated again eleven months later when I gave birth to my son. She continued to rejoice with me even as she continued to wait. It was two years later when Karen casually (or not so casually) mentioned a great guy named Rob. Soon our conversations were filled with talk of this handsome U.S. diplomat who had a personality even bigger than her own. He was kind, intentional, intelligent, and loved God. And he loved my dear friend. It wasn’t long before I was flying back to D.C. to celebrate a long-awaited wedding. Karen Race was now Karen McCutcheon, and her husband whisked her off to Dubai (to provide her with more storytelling material, of course). And now somehow, by some mysterious blinking power, the forties are upon us. A few days ago we admitted again that life looks nothing like we thought it would. It’s been harder than we’d imagined. It’s been richer than we’d dreamed. In the fall of 1985, God gave me one of the sweetest gifts of my life. Because I know Karen, I know what joy and perseverance and transparency look like. I’ve laughed until my sides hurt. I’ve had adventures to last me a lifetime. I’ve loved people better. I’ve loved Jesus harder. Today I celebrate a phenomenal woman on her 40th birthday. And I thank God for the friendship He knew would beautify the many seasons of my life. Happy birthday, Karen. (Photo credits: First wedding pic by Lorelei Conover Photography. Second wedding pic by Marissa Joy Photography.)
I penned this almost eight years ago in the midst of a desperate season, when I was hungry for the Word and a quiet space to process my hurting heart. A small booth in the back corner of Panera Bread became my sweet refuge that Spring. This journal entry is a beautiful reminder to me that God knows just how to pursue us, woo us, in every season of our life. (How are you experiencing Him in this unique season of yours, dear one?) April 3, 2009 It’s 6:01 on Friday morning, and I’m at my neighborhood Panera Bread. These days I get up between 4:30 and 5:00 to make it here by the time the doors open. My Bible and C.S. Lewis’ The Problem of Pain sit beside my cup of coffee. There’s a group of old men that beats me to the door every morning. (One of them dresses as if he’ll be attending the Santa Anita horse races later this afternoon.) They take up two tables by the door and talk for hours on end. Another old man sits by himself a few tables away and reads through his Coke-bottle glasses. He carries a manila folder with a big superman-like S drawn on the front. I’d like to know what’s in that folder. Then there’s a quiet Asian woman whose hair is always pulled back into a ponytail and who reads her Bible and journals—then slips out quietly around 6:45. Once or twice a week, six medical doctors convene at the big conference table in the middle of the restaurant. They eat bagels and talk about important stuff. The classical music doesn’t start playing until about 6:15, just about the time one of the Panera employees drags the cafe umbrellas outside. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone sitting outside this early in the morning. It’s too cold. Too dark. Of all the Panera regulars, my two favorites are about to walk through the door: two Redlands High School girls who I became friends with in this corner of the restaurant last Monday morning. I wonder if any of the students at our school would, of their own volition, get up and go sit at a coffee shop at 6:30 in the morning? The periwinkle sky has just caught my eye, and it looks like the midnight’s lighthearted storm left behind some billowy remains. It’s beautiful. Everything is wet and cloudy and peaceful. Just what my heart needs before my day full of responsibilities that far exceed my capabilities. Which is why my favorite part of Panera is the part that’s unseen and indescribable. Unbeknownst to everyone around me, there’s someone else at my table with me. I walk in here every morning in desperate need of more than just coffee. (Although that’s important, too.) I need Him. His words. His truth. His hope. His wisdom. I need to lay my day before Him and ask Him for His strength and joy. And He gives it in abundance. He’s not stingy or tired or grumpy. He’s here with me, eager to accomplish His purposes in and through me today. I want to be a regular with Jesus. I want to know what He’s like and what He’s up to each day. I want to sit and observe and listen and learn. And then do. I want to go from here and obey what He’s spoken to my heart. Thank You, Lord, for this little corner. This healing place. This daily cup of joy…
Seven years ago I sat in a coffee shop, looking across the table at a handsome man named Eddie. He was not quite a stranger to me, due to weeks of long phone conversations and shared group activities—but he was a huge risk. And I was scared. Please don’t hurt me, my tender heart silently cried. But from what I knew of him already, I couldn’t help but get excited when Eddie stated his intentions that night. He wanted to pursue a serious, marriage-minded relationship with me. ~ ~ ~ ~ By the time you’re 33 and still unmarried, you’ve mourned the death of a thousand dreams and you have just as many reasons why you should never risk your heart with another man again, why you should run when you see weakness in him, why dating can feel like a prelude to devastation. So while I was completely enamored with Eddie and couldn’t wait to spend every possible minute with him, I was also ready to bolt at any given moment. Surely God would say “no” to this one too, right? Well, I’d be ready. With my running shoes on. I begged God to let me get it right this time. I wanted a “yes” or “no”—sooner rather than later. I’d already risked my heart with several great guys before. Each time it had seemed so promising, so right. What made this scenario any different? Was I just setting myself up for another heartbreak? I had a shelf full of waiting-and-dating books but deep down I knew there was no course of action that would guarantee a safe and blissful trip to the altar. God was not asking me to get it all right—He was asking me for my heart. He wanted me to cling to Him and hold my relationship with Eddie in open, surrendered hands. And that’s as hard as it sounds. So I asked Him to teach me. Show me how to love and be loved in the midst of my fears, Lord. I had to close my eyes to the “what-ifs” and worst-case scenarios that played like a film festival in my heart—and instead look long at Him, staying in His Word and pouring out my heart to Him in prayer. But I was a slow, awkward learner. I remember calling one of my best friends in a frenzy over another “red flag” I saw in my relationship with Eddie. (I’d put those running shoes on again.) Lisa listened patiently and then said in her characteristically truth-telling way, “You keep looking for red flags in this guy, but you’re the mess.” And she was right. I was. I was a bundle of nerves and misgivings, and I needed a big God to walk me through heart-rending places. In those months I learned a new way to apply Elisabeth Elliot’s advice to “do the next thing.” I would enjoy the next date and leave the next year—with all its uncertainties and unknowns—in God’s strong hands. Growing to love and trust Eddie was, in a strange sense, a beautiful discipline. I was facing some of my long-standing fears, opening up my heart in the very places it was most tender, and learning it was okay to enjoy what God was giving me. Have you ever been terrified of a good gift God is giving you? ~ ~ ~ ~ We girls tend to think of falling in love with “the one” as something that will be obvious and chick-flick-worthy. But for me it was a season of tenacious trust. Right alongside the butterflies in my stomach and the new sparkle in my eyes was a sobering awareness that only God Himself could give me the grace to love past my fears, to love without knowing what tomorrow looked like. And only He could get me ready for a covenant love—a love so supernatural that two sinners with a ton of baggage, living in an anti-marriage culture, could commit their lives to each other “till death do us part.” In the end, I chose to love more than I fell in love. And that ushered me into a beautiful marriage where we continue to choose to keep loving each other every day, in our best and our worst. We’re only six years into this lifelong covenant, but I have a hunch we’ll be choosing love to our very last day.
When my son was only a few months old, I had a mother-of-four walk by me and say, “Oh, I remember the days of only one child. Enjoy it—you have it so easy!” She was right, you know. Mothering one child is enjoyable, and it is much easier than taking care of four small children as she was. But she was also wrong. Enjoyment doesn’t come merely from having only one child. And easy wasn’t what I was feeling that particular day: I was in the throes of post-partum depression, suffering from serious health issues, surviving on three hours of sleep every night, and learning to be a mom for the very first time. … During my 14 years of singleness, I had more than one married woman tell me, “Once I surrendered my singleness to the Lord and was completely content, God brought my husband along the very next day!” (Why was it always the very next day?) Was contentment a destination or a daily choice? Moreover, was perfect contentment supposed to win me the prize of marriage? … Over the years, I’ve heard myriad people say, “Parenting is the most sanctifying thing in the world.” What does this mean then for those who are single or barren? What happened to Jesus’ statement in John 17 that God’s Word is what sanctifies us? Do parents have a corner on the market of spiritual maturity? A BETTER WORD It would be easy for me to resent such misguided comments, except for the fact that I’ve been guilty of similar words myself. When we’re hurting, self-absorbed, or simply wanting to validate our season of life, it’s easy to think and speak “extra-biblically.” We offer commentary and advice that’s rooted in our own experiences or emotions, not in the Word of God. “For the Lord gives wisdom; from his mouth come knowledge and understanding.” Proverbs 2:6 “[A wife of noble character] speaks with wisdom, and faithful instruction is on her tongue.” Proverbs 31:26 Where does wisdom come from? The Lord. So if I want to speak with wisdom, if I want faithful instruction on the tip of my tongue, I go to the Lord, the source of all wisdom. Sure, I can draw from my own life lessons and share my experiences, but “apart from the Lord, I have no good thing.” My Word-less words have no power of their own. But His Word? Oh, His Word is… “perfect, refreshing the soul trustworthy, making wise the simple right, giving joy to the heart radiant, giving light to the eyes.” (Psalm 19) If I really want to refresh a friend’s soul, give joy to her heart, and light to her eyes, I’ll be slow to dish out my own advice and quick to direct the conversation toward the beautiful, life-giving truths of the Word. For example, instead of comparing plights with a friend and telling her, “You have it so easy!” I might focus on the goodness of God I see in her life. Or I can steer the conversation away from the differences in our situations and instead focus on what we share in common in Christ. Or instead of telling a single girl to be perfectly content so that God will reward her with a husband, I might share how I learned to cling to Isaiah 54 (“your Maker is your husband”) and 1 Thessalonians 5:24 (“the One who calls you is faithful, and He will do it”). God’s Word will never return empty; it will always accomplish what God desires. It’s alive and active, piercing to the joints and marrow of our souls. And if we could speak with that kind of wisdom, then it would be said of us, “Faithful instruction is on her tongue.” {Scriptures referenced: Psalm 16:2, Isaiah 55:11, Hebrews 4:12} This article also appears on ERLC.com.
I was 31 and it was Christmas Eve when we had The Talk. Everyone thought we were the perfect match. So even though I put on a happy face, my heart reeled as he told me we should “just be friends.” We wished each other a merry Christmas, he walked out the door, and I fell apart. Then I pulled myself together again to join my family for Christmas Eve dinner—where my younger brother and his wife announced they were expecting their first child. I celebrated as I choked back soul-deep sobs. My single years held many Christmases like that one—sweet joys in the midst of silent anguish, bitterness tangled up in beauty. The very things about the season that enchanted me, also served to magnify my heartache: parties with everyone coupled up but me; romantic Christmas music and movies; and those annual Christmas letters brimming with friends’ burgeoning families. It all reminded me of what I didn’t have, of what I longed for with all my being. My fight for contentment and hope was so much more intense through those holiday weeks. But I didn’t have the corner on the market of pain. Others were also hurting and hoping for better Christmases to come. Over the years I wept with friends who suffered the loss of a newborn baby, a parent’s sudden death, a broken marriage, a barren womb, and financial hardships. My heart grew tender toward those who lacked the very basic necessities of life: shelter, food, and love—as well as those who suffered “smaller” pangs: strained family relationships, the betrayal of a close friend, or the loneliness of living far from home and loved ones. And while marriage and motherhood have taken much of Bitterness’ bite out of the season, my husband and I have navigated a job loss, flooded home, debilitating illness, and other such stresses, all while celebrating “the most wonderful season of all.” Dear one, you’ve been here too, haven’t you? You have fasted in the middle of the feast, and you’ve tasted the bitterness in the bounty. The holidays, especially Christmas it seems, represent all that is generous and beautiful. We sing of peace and well-being and hope. We give thanks and we exchange gifts. We cherish the idea of an invisible Santa Claus delivering wishes-come-true, of family gatherings around a festive feast, and of hot drinks sipped at the fireside with Bing Crosby’s voice crooning in the background. But we feel the deep disparity between this broken world we live in, and the world we were made for. Our hearts long for unadulterated happiness and peace, but we are marred by brokenness and need. And therein lies the greatest gift of all: this deep disparity brings us back to the true meaning of Christmas. Our heartaches, our have-nots, and even the brokenness of the world around us—they drive us to the Only One who can satiate our souls. And that longing within us for something more, that discontent that follows the feast and the gift-opening—it reminds us of the immeasurable gift God gave us in sending his Son Jesus to us… To live with us. To die for us. To give us the infinite riches of Himself. And not only did He give us His Son, but He also constantly works this brokenness and heartache for our good—our infinite, perfect, glorious good. Though I won’t know the fullness of that good until eternity, I’ve experienced it here in a million ways. Do you know how thankful I am for those years when God didn’t give me what I so desperately wanted? Oh, how I praise Him for that long wait that made me fall in love with Him, and for saying “no” to every other man so that I could marry the best man of all, Edward Chao. These holidays are for us, dear one—for the hurting, the broken, and the needy. Our culture is enamored with busy, expensive, indulgent, feel-good holidays. But God is always about us finding our highest good in Him, even when that requires us to suffer, to do without, or to wait an inordinate length of time. He loves us too much to let us settle for lesser loves. This Christmas, may our silent aches and longings compel us to worship the God of the Universe, who wrapped Himself in flesh and blood so that our lives would have meaning, so that we would know the Hope that does not disappoint. {Scriptures referenced: Hebrews 13:14-15, Romans 8:32, 2 Corinthians 4:17, Romans 5:5} This article is from the archives (originally posted November 2013). This was also posted on True Woman.
This Sunday, you will not be far from my thoughts, dear one. With every fiber of your being you long to be a mom. You were made for motherhood, and everything within you cries out against your barrenness. I remember. I was 35 when I gave birth to my first and only child. Due to some health complications, I can’t bear any more children. If I’d scripted the story of my life, I would have had my first at 24 (he’d be 17 now) and at least two or three children after that. Instead, my fruitful years were spent celebrating everyone else’s babies—one birth announcement and baby shower after another. Whatever could I do with empty hands that were made to hold children? God met me in my emptiness with strong words that forever changed me. He sang Isaiah 54 over my longings, and as I clung to this Scripture through those waiting years, its truths were engraved into the marrow of my soul. Sing, O barren one, who did not bear; break forth into singing and cry aloud, you who have not been in labor. For the children of the desolate one will be more than the children of her who is married, says the Lord. Could my childless life truly be as rich and full as my friends who had children? Could I sit through yet another baby shower or Mother’s Day assured of some glorious purpose in my pain? God said so, right there in the pages of Scripture—so I took Him at His Word. I poured out my life and love into my teenage students and college-age girls. Over the course of my single years, I opened up my heart and home, discipling women, counseling kids in crisis, and leading Bible studies where God showed up in spectacular ways. I wasn’t always faithful to invest well, and sometimes my sorrow and longing overshadowed my ministries, but by God’s grace I began to feel the weighty truth of Isaiah 54—although I was not yet a mother, I had dozens of spiritual children. I felt rich. Unspeakably, filthy rich. But there was yet another aspect of Isaiah 54, a far scarier aspect that compelled my heart to continue hoping for children of my own. While I felt wealthy with spiritual children, the longing for marriage and motherhood wouldn’t go away. I didn’t quite know what to do with these words: Enlarge the place of your tent, and let the curtains of your habitations be stretched out; do not hold back; lengthen your cords and strengthen your stakes. For you will spread abroad to the right and to the left, and your offspring will possess the nations… Although God wasn’t signing on the dotted line, promising to give me my own flesh-and-blood, I wanted my heart to be full of faith that He could. I wanted to hope past the taunting tick-tock of my biological clock. I wanted to believe that with just one word He could turn my barrenness into fruitfulness as He had for Sarah, Rachel, Hannah, Ruth, and Elizabeth. Hope is scary, but it is our lifeblood. So I fought to cultivate hope first and foremost in Him, and then a lesser hope that He would one day fulfill the longings of my heart for children. The years passed by, and while I continued to bear spiritual children, marriage and motherhood still eluded me. Isaiah 54 sustained me again and again: Fear not, for you will not be ashamed; be not confounded, for you will not be disgraced; For you will forget the shame of your youth, and the reproach of your widowhood [singleness, barrenness] you will remember no more. For your Maker is your Husband, the Lord of hosts is His name… I have a friend who waited till she was 41 to become a mother. I have other friends who continue to wait, well into their thirties, forties and even fifties. I had a lesser wait at 35. But those lessons learned while sitting in church every Mother’s Day, as long-stemmed roses passed me by and I sat alone while seemingly every other woman stood to be appreciated—those lessons will never be forgotten. And so this weekend, I’m thinking of you, dear one. Although we may never meet on this side of eternity, I’m praying that your Maker, who is your Husband, will grant you hope in Himself, faith that He can do the impossible, and the blessing of many spiritual children. Sing, O barren one… for you are precious and fruitful and honored in His eyes.
Years ago, God gave me a simple mental image that helped me persevere through long years of singleness. I pictured a treasure chest where my tears were stored and turned into eternal reward. By imagining each tear of anguish counting for eternity (see Psalm 126:5), I was able to push on to trust God through another day of deferred longings. These tears, I told myself, will count for something infinitely great… My sorrow in singleness was an invitation to find my treasure in Christ. It was valuable, not as an end, but as a means to usher me into a deeper love relationship with my Lord. Suffering, both then and now, reminds me that this life is not where my ultimate happiness and purpose are found. But sometimes I get things all backwards. It’s easy to start viewing my hardships as if they were my badge of honor, my validation, even my very identity. My temptation is to worship at the altar of my pain instead of offering it up as a sacrifice of praise to the Only One worthy of my worship. In fact, sometimes I want your validation and empathy more than “I want to know Christ and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His sufferings” (Philippians 3:10). But when I exalt my hardships, I necessarily have to diminish the hardships of everyone else around me. I need your suffering to pale in comparison to mine. Haven’t we all done this, especially on our darkest days? For example, the 30-something single girl may look at the 20-something barren wife and think, “Well, at least she has a husband and has the potential to get pregnant! I’d be happy just to get a date!” Or the married mother of young children may look at the single girl and think, “Look at her carefree life! What I wouldn’t give to dress up cute, meet friends for coffee, and sleep-in once in awhile!” Suffering can lead to a hard heart that looks bitterly at everyone else’s better, easier life… or it can soften our hearts and give us great compassion for others’ sufferings, no matter how they compare to ours. This is the heart of 2 Corinthians 1:3-4: “The God of all comfort…comforts us in all our affliction so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” No one else will suffer quite like you do, or I do, but that’s beside the point. God’s comfort is for those who are in any affliction. For me to compare my sorrows against yours robs me of doing the very thing I was made for: “God has so composed the body. . .that there may be no division in the body, but that the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together.” 1 Corinthians 12:24-26 Our mutual suffering, although very different in shape and size, is designed to bind us together, not divide us. It’s not that we should avoid talking about our hardships with each other; it’s that we should talk about them in light of who God is and what He has done for us (Philippians 3:8; 2 Corinthians 11). This builds up the Body, all of whose members experience trials. I don’t want to make much of my sorrow; I want to make much of my God in sorrow. Long years of singleness, my ongoing struggle with depression and panic attacks, and debilitating health issues (both my own and my son’s) have given me more opportunities to minister to others and boast in Christ than all of my successes and talents combined. Even my fight for sexual purity as a single woman opened up surprising doors for me to talk about Jesus with believers and unbelievers alike. Suffering really is not the point. God is. Through our sorrows He invites us into deeper fellowship with Himself. He takes our tears and turns them into eternal joy as we come to know and love Him more and then comfort those who are suffering around us. As Joylane Bartron wrote, “Suffering is not a competitive sport.” Let’s stop comparing our plights with each other and exalting our hardships. Instead, let’s run together into the God of all comfort who promises, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” Isaiah 43:2-3 This article also appears at Kindred Grace.
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