A Womb for God

A Womb for God

Oh Lord, my heart is cold;

I have been tried in Your fire

and I’m tired,

and I cannot see the gold.

Renew my soul

this Christmastime …

Mary was a womb for God; 

she said yes,

gave her body and her soul 

in willingness

to be broken and poured out 

on the altar of God’s will.

Mary was a womb for God,

though it meant her son was killed. 

Let me be a womb for God;

let me say yes.

Fill my body and my soul

with willingness

to be broken and poured out 

on the altar of God’s will.

Let me be a womb for God

in the quiet and the still.

Oh, fill me, 

till I’m aware of more of You.

Oh, stretch me, 

till I am broken and made new.

Even though I’m cracked and flawed,

grow within me, gracious God,

till Your glory and Your majesty

shine through.

I will be a womb for God;

I will say yes,

give my body and my soul

in willingness

to be broken and poured out 

on the altar of Your will.

I will be a womb for God

in the quiet and the still,

in the quiet and the still.

As we approached Advent the year after our daughter beat cancer, she was still undergoing minimal chemotherapy to keep evil cells in her blood and bones at bay, and I was recovering from adrenal fatigue and depression. In my numbness and exhaustion, I could barely comprehend Christmas was coming, much less engage in any celebratory activities. 

One afternoon in late November, when the kids were at school and the house was empty, I sat down at the piano and wrote, “Oh Lord, my heart is cold … I have been tried in Your fire, and I’m tired … and I cannot see the gold. Renew my soul this Christmastime …” 

That was the cry of my heart. I couldn’t imagine joy that Christmas. My inner fatigue was too thick, and my disillusionment with God’s goodness continued, despite tangibly experiencing His care and compassion throughout my daughter’s grueling treatment and recovery. 

In the quiet, this thought came: 

Mary was a womb for God… She said yes.

As the phrases kept coming, complete with melody, I scribbled them in my journal. I played simple chords in the key of C—the key that feels most like home to me—adding minors and diminished chords to express the sorrow plaguing my heart. What did it mean that Mary was “a womb for God”? What did her “yes” mean for all of us? What might her “yes” mean for me, in my state of Advent apathy? What would it mean for me, like Mary, to open myself fully to the will of God in my life, to make room for Him to stretch me, to accept His enlarging presence even if it meant searing pain? 

Mary’s enlarging continued past her pregnancy into the days of early motherhood, as she began to receive hints of what was ahead. I imagined Simeon’s ancient, wrinkled face glowing with joy as he bent tenderly over the tiny features and downy dark hair of the Son of God in Mary’s arms. He may have glanced up sharply, searching her face, as he added, “And a sword will pierce your own soul too” (Luke 2.35 NIV). I wondered how Mary felt upon hearing those words. Could she fathom the unbelievable story God was writing—the plot twist that would simultaneously slay His Son and hers, while nailing the sins of the entire world irrevocably to that tree?

 Did Mary know she was the chosen descendant of that woman whose deceived “yes” to the serpent thousands of years ago betrayed herself and all of us? Was she aware that her surrendered “yes” was the fulcrum on which God would pivot history, that it was her body that had birthed the One prophesied to crush the head of that vile snake once and for all? Simeon’s piercing words and the deep knowing in his rheumy eyes were a foreshadowing. Even as Mary’s attention was absorbed in the sweetness of the infant in her arms, she must have tucked away that disturbing image of a sword to ponder on later. 

Mary was a womb for God,

though it meant her son was killed.

God almost took our daughter. He does take countless daughters and sons. He allows the unimaginable every day. I was plagued by horror at what could have been, and guilt that many others suffer far more. As I wrestled, the memory of words God had whispered deep in my spirit the year before saved me. Toward the end of the first year of my daughter’s treatment, when we knew she was out of danger, I began to grapple with the “might-have-beens” and the terrible finality of loss all around me in the child cancer ward. Cocooned in a sleeping bag on a personal retreat, I finally went down to the very depths of my soul and screamed at God, “We almost lost her! How would I have survived?” 

Several heartbeats later, in the depths of the sleeping bag, I felt, rather than heard, His voice: 

“I know what it’s like to lose a child.” He held me as I wept. 

Sitting at the piano almost exactly a year later, fresh tears welled up and brimmed over as I slowly wrote the words at the start of the second verse: “Let me be a womb for God; let me say yes.” I knew now what that might cost. It’s unimaginable. The only way to stay sane in the midst of a world still scarred by sin and scoured by an enemy who hates us is to surrender unequivocally to the One who holds the threads of everything in His own scarred, gentle hands. He has seen the end from the very beginning, and is working all things—all things—together for good. Trusting Him to do that is the only path to peace.

As I arrived at the end of the second verse, I searched for a new rhyme for the altar of God’s will, and out flowed: “Let me be a womb for God, in the quiet and the still.” My soul was aching for stillness. Hollowed out, drained, I longed to get quiet enough to sense the fluttering quickening of the Holy Spirit’s presence in my inner being. I was desperate to know God’s life was still alive in me.

As I wrote that line, I felt a deep permission from God to be completely quiet and still that Advent season, to not engage in the Christmas rush, to not pursue “Christmas” at all. God understood how I felt. He knew I couldn’t celebrate, that I didn’t have the energy to do anything other than keep breathing in and out, and to lay in His light as He healed me. And that was just what He wanted me to do. I cried with relief. 

Gradually, I began to sing out the words of the bridge. “Fill me!” I cried, “till I’m aware of more of You …” I craved hope and assurance that I instinctively knew could only be found in the presence of the same One who had cracked our family wide open. “Stretch me, till I am broken and made new …” He was both the cause of all my questions and the answer to them, the Enlarger and the Healer, the One Who allowed the breaking and Who undertook the mending. Only He has complete power over every aspect of life, and only He is completely trustworthy to work even horrid things into good. 

Acutely aware of my utter unworthiness to hold the presence of the living God, I still longed for His filling. “Grow within me, gracious God, till Your glory and your majesty shine through.” 

“We have this treasure in jars of clay,” writes Paul, “to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us” (2 Corinthians 4.7 NIV). I realized that in the process of writing that song, I had come to a place of deeper surrender. I had felt forced, against my will, to submit to circumstances beyond my control, but now I sensed God inviting me to invite Him in. He was gently showing me that welcoming His enlarging presence in my life could only produce good in the end. Fresh life, new growth, increased capacity and resilience comes through stretching and pain. 

Mary’s response to the angel was one of simple, humble surrender: “May it happen to me as you have said” (Luke 1.38 CSB). When I echo her words and adopt her heart posture, I open myself to the quickening and stretching movement of the Holy Spirit of God inside me—a sensation even more magical and breathtaking than feeling a baby move in a womb. Every human can be a womb for God; in fact, that is His design. He put a space inside each of us that only He can fill. His in-dwelling expands and stretches us, sometimes painfully, but the life He births brings unimaginable joy.

The featured image, “Angel with Candle,” is courtesy of Julie Jablonski and used with her kind permission for Cultivating.

Carolyn Broughton

A writer, songwriter, and amateur music producer, Carolyn holds a Bachelor of Music from Wheaton College, where she pursued her twin passions for music and spiritual formation. Living overseas for the past twenty years has given her a keen interest in the connections between the inner life, the craft of making, and the art of sojourning, especially how tending her own soul affects her ability to tend the souls of others. Carolyn has contributed to an anthology of pandemic art, Beauty from Brokenness, and to Yet We Still Hope, a collection of honest, vulnerable essays by women serving overseas. You can connect with Carolyn and find her music and resources for the sojourning life at www.carolynbroughton.com.

www.carolynbroughton.com