Kathy Gallagher
It felt like the air had left the room. The significance of the moment, this hinge on which the rest of life would turn for all of us, was a weight so huge I felt immobile, and my words left me.
What I wanted to do was wrap my arms around this beautiful young woman, this grieving mother, and her parents and say perfect words that would fill their empty cup, soothe their raw hearts, and whisper strength.
Instead, I clutched the baby girl Sara had placed in my arms, feeling both full and powerless, and wept tears over the small, sleeping form. How could the fulfillment of my dreams be so full of ache? If this precious young woman was empty and I was full, was I now a villain?
We stood awkwardly at the door, not knowing how to move. After two short weeks, it was time to leave.
And then, as if by magic, the door opened, the air rushed in, and with it, Paul and Kathy. They took in the tension in a moment.
“Let’s pray together,” Paul said, his big arms gathering all of us at once. Paul and Kathy had been through adoption three times and brought their wealth of wisdom to our new story. Then, turning to his wife, Paul said, “Kathy, I wonder if you would like to lead us in prayer?”
It felt right to bow in grief and surrender and supplication before the only One who could mend this moment. We wept in the long silence that followed, and then Kathy’s soothing voice shepherded our raw hearts into the throne room, softly praying and preaching the strange and beautiful story of Hannah.
. . . . . . . .
In a culture where children, sons particularly, were considered the value of women, Hannah’s empty arms stung deeply.
Childlessness was more than an ache, a longing in her heart. More even than survival in her latter years. A son was, to Hannah, a symbol of the blessing of God. She watched her friends’ bellies swell, the children at their feet multiply. She must have hoped, prayed, despaired, envied, withdrawn, and hoped again. But somehow, she was excluded from the community of mothers, forgotten, she believed, by God.
Home was not a refuge from the reminder of the joys of motherhood, for she shared her husband with another wife. Peninnah had child after child after child, every blessing Hannah longed for. Perhaps Peninnah envied the tender love of Elkanah for Hannah as he assured her that he treasured her and that his love was not attached to childbearing.
“Am I not better to you than ten sons?” he said, and I imagine him drawing Hannah to him and comforting her.
Whatever her motivation, Peninnah went for the jugular:
Because the Lord had closed Hannah’s womb, her rival would provoke her and taunt her viciously. And this went on year after year. Whenever Hannah went up to the house of the LORD, her rival taunted her until she wept and would not eat.[1]
Year. After. Year.
For the first 16 years after my marriage to Jim, Mothers’ Day held an ache. So many times in private, I would lay my longing for a child out before the Lord, feeling his closeness and understanding. I would rehearse and remember his goodness and sovereignty. Often I prayed for the miracle. Occasionally I dreamt I had a baby, and then I would keep my eyes tightly closed, not wanting the dream to end.
On Mother’s Day every year, someplace, sometime, the tears would flow as I grieved and chose again to accept that a different story was written for me. I greeted my church friends with sincere blessings and watched as they were honored. But afterward, in the parking lot, my childless friends and I would gravitate to one another, share hugs and maybe a tear. It felt good to be understood.
But Hannah did not have the comforting words of Scripture nor friends and mentors to remind her that God knew her and loved her. She felt unknown. Forgotten.
The annual sacrifice at Shiloh was Hannah’s Mothers' Day. Peninnah, of course, was there, with all her sons and daughters. But Hannah, except for the company of Elkanah, was alone.
And so on this particular year, as the family once again went to Shiloh to worship, feast, and celebrate, Hannah could not eat. Could not even speak. Could only stand alone, quietly praying to the only hope she knew of, the God of Israel, wondering if he was listening.
In her bitter distress, Hannah prayed to the LORD and wept with many tears. And she made a vow, pleading, “O LORD of Hosts, if only You will look upon the affliction of Your maidservant and remember me, not forgetting Your maidservant but giving her a son, then I will dedicate him to the LORD all the days of his life, and no razor shall ever come over his head.”
Look upon me, Lord of Hosts. Remember me. Don’t forget me.
Do you relate? Have you felt overlooked, forgotten?
Hannah did not yet have the example and comfort of Scripture to guide her, nor the raw, honest Psalms modeling how to freely pour out your ache and anger, trusting God with our deepest pain and fears.
Later David would write in Psalm 13:1-2:
How long, O LORD? Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me? How long must I wrestle in my soul, with sorrow in my heart each day? How long will my enemy dominate me?
Asaph, too, in Psalm 77:7-9:
Will the Lord spurn us forever and never show His favor again? Is His loving devotion gone forever? Has His promise failed for all time? Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has His anger shut off His compassion?
But perhaps Hannah had heard the story of Samson’s mother, also barren, whom God blessed with a longed-for child. This mother dedicated her son to the Lord under the Nazirite vow to never cut his hair.
Maybe that hope was what prompted Hannah to stand in the place of feasting and pour out her prayer in silent anguish:
In her bitter distress, Hannah prayed to the LORD and wept with many tears. And she made a vow, pleading, “O LORD of Hosts, if only You will look upon the affliction of Your maidservant and remember me, not forgetting Your maidservant but giving her a son, then I will dedicate him to the LORD all the days of his life, and no razor shall ever come over his head.”
Nearby the beloved, old priest, Eli, watched and wondered. Judged. To Hannah it must have been a final shame when this good man, the representative of God, rebuked her for being drunk.
At last Hannah found her courage and spoke in her own defense:
“No, my lord,” Hannah replied. “I am a woman oppressed in spirit. I have not had any wine or strong drink, but I have poured out my soul before the LORD. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman; for all this time I have been praying out of the depth of my anguish and grief.” “Go in peace,” Eli replied, “and may the God of Israel grant the petition you have asked of Him.”
The kindly words of Eli, this small gift of understanding and blessing, were a lifeline for drowning Hannah. When we believe we are unseen, words of affirmation matter deeply. The scriptures tell us that from that moment, Hannah’s demeanor changed. She began eating, her face no longer downcast. Having just one ally turned the tide and gave Hannah the courage, strength, and faith she lacked.
I wonder when Hannah first realized that she was pregnant? I have this preposterous picture in my mind of Hannah checking a pregnancy test and blushing in delight.
Scripture simply tells us that,
The LORD remembered her. So in the course of time, Hannah conceived and gave birth to a son. She named him Samuel, saying, “Because I have asked for him from the LORD.”
The Lord remembered.
Had he forgotten? Did he ever say, “Oh, shoot! Sorry about that; misplaced your prayer for 16 years.”
Not for a moment.
A plan was unfolding.
A character growing.
A theology of suffering forming.
Hannah skipped Mother’s Day (or rather, the annual sacrifice at Shiloh) that year.
“After the boy is weaned,” she said to her husband, “I will take him to appear before the LORD and to stay there permanently.”
So Hannah stayed and nursed her son until she had weaned him. And most likely rocked him and bounced him and blew on his belly and played peek-a-boo and whispered prayers and kissed him and laughed loudly and sewed him clothes and taught him right from wrong and just stared at him in wonder as he slept. She must have relished every moment, even while preparing Samuel, and her own heart, for the parting that was to come.
It did come.
One day they buttoned up Samuel’s little coat, packed some food and a bull to offer to the Lord, and perhaps a satchel of small clothes, and they made their way to Shiloh. After their sacrifice, the little family sought out Eli, who may have forgotten Hannah’s face, or perhaps was already suffering from what would later become blindness.
“Please, my lord,” said Hannah, “as surely as you live, my lord, I am the woman who stood here beside you praying to the LORD. I prayed for this boy, and since the LORD has granted me what I asked of Him, I now dedicate the boy to the LORD. For as long as he lives, he is dedicated to the LORD.”
I wish I knew what that exchange looked like. What expression was on old Eli’s face? Did Hannah weep or smile with pride? Did Elkanah say much at all? Maybe Samuel slipped his little hand in Eli’s and looked up at the old man with wonder in his eyes.
We read only this after that gut-wrenching exchange, that receiving and letting go:
“So they worshiped the Lord there.”
That is what we do when our words are gone. We stand in wonder and worship and surrender. We trust. Even when our arms are empty.
. . . . . . . .
The lullaby of Kathy’s soft voice soothed us as she prayed, her words realigning our hearts with truth. God sees. He remembers.
Like Hannah, I knew the pain of childlessness and the miracle of a longing fulfilled. Like Hannah, Sara knew what it meant to give her child over to the Lord. Two mothers dedicated one child to the Lord for as long as they lived. The stories of our empty arms, hers and mine, came together in the story of Hannah.
Sometimes worship looks like receiving. And sometimes it looks like letting go.
Our tears flowed through our final embraces and whispered wishes, prayers, and last-minute promises. How connected I felt to this courageous, beautiful young woman who, in letting go, gave me everything when she made me a mother!
In the months that followed, I pondered that connection and searched for a word to define what Sara meant to me. Of course, there are titles for all kinds of relationships—Blood Sister, Bond-servant, Mother-In-Law, Stepmother, Better Half, and even Birth Mother. But what do we call the one who gave my daughter, Molly, the gift of life and gave me my heart's desire? There isn’t a word that encompasses that role.
So I just call her…
The Other Half of Hannah.
. . . . . . . . . .
AFTERWORD:
Slowly and sweetly God reopened our relationship with Sara and her family in the months that followed. Goodbyes don’t always need to be forever, and we have shared more moments of laughter than tears in the nearly 22 years since that day we thought we were saying goodbye forever.
In the providence of a God who sees and remembers and writes beautiful stories, the month in which I’m writing this also happens to be the month in which “our daughter,” as Sara and I conspiratorially call Molly, is heading off to spend several days with her birth mom.
But the script of Molly’s own story keeps growing, its beautiful tendrils drawing in more characters than you can possibly imagine. In the last two years, Molly slowly built a relationship with her birth father, too! So after vacationing with birth mom, she will be joining birth DAD to celebrate his graduation from graduate school and to vacation with his family, too.
God can be trusted with all our broken stories.
Kathy Gallagher writes with raw honesty and a bit of humor on themes of faith, aging, and living out your unique purpose with courage and maybe a little panache. Kathy and her husband, Jim, moved to Oregon in 2002 with their then two-year-old, and now live out amongst the oak trees, savoring the beauty when they are not busy chasing puppies, whacking thistles or scratching their poison oak. Kathy’s day job is in Human Resources. You can connect on social @KathyGallagher or follow her blog at kathygallagherwrites.
[1] All quotations from Hannah’s story are from 1 Samuel 1, Berean Study Bible. But don’t stop at chapter 1. Did you know Hannah wrote a Psalm even before David did? You can read it in 1 Samuel 2. And then you might as well keep reading to find out about…. Oh, wait! We haven’t gotten to that part of the story yet. But you just have to read it.
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