Overcoming the Battle of
By Pastor Judy Achero
Barrenness
The battle against me had been declared.
That is the only way I can describe it. It felt as though somewhere in the unseen realm, a verdict had been written over
my life: You will not have children.
turned into intense cramps. Then the bleeding began. I was young. I had never walked this road before. I did not understand what was happening. I could not even reach the telephone to call for help.
A few months after our wedding, I discovered that I was pregnant. We were filled with joy and expectation. Four months into the pregnancy, I travelled with my husband on a mission trip to a rural area in Kenya where he had been invited to minister. The following morning, I woke up with mild stomach pains and decided not to attend the church service with him. As he ministered, I remained in the room. The mild discomfort soon
When my husband returned and rushed me to the hospital, the verdict came swiftly: I had lost the baby. What followed were days of sorrow that are difficult to put into words. The silence in the room. The emptiness in my body. The questions in my heart. We tried again. Another pregnancy. Another miscarriage. It began to feel like a pattern. Like an invisible hand was intercepting every attempt at life.>
Warrior Woman Magazine
Issue 1 :: April 2026
Warrior Woman Magazine
Hope Interrupted Again
When I conceived for the third time, something inside me dared to believe it would be different. I carried that pregnancy with guarded hope. Month after month passed peacefully. Everything appeared normal. But almost seven months into the pregnancy, the familiar cramps returned.
This time, I recognized them immediately. We called the doctor and were told to get to the hospital without delay. As we prepared to leave, my water broke. Even then, I held onto hope. Surely this time would not end like the others. While examining me, a nurse casually said, “There is no fetal heartbeat.”
The words floated in the air, heavy yet unreal.>
Everything was happening too fast to process. The doctor came in and assured us that although the baby would be premature, the pediatrician was on standby. The baby would be placed in an incubator until the lungs matured. We clung to that reassurance.
As I pushed, I expected urgency. I expected movement. I expected hope. Instead, when my baby was delivered, the room fell still. No rush to the incubator. No sound. No cry. My husband squeezed my hand, and in that silent exchange, I knew. I had given birth to a handsome baby boy. But he was not breathing. My son was stillborn. There are pains that tear through the body. And there are pains that split the soul. This was both.
The Medical Report
Months of tests followed. Specialists examined, analyzed, and concluded. The final advice was devastating: I should not attempt to become pregnant again. Future pregnancies would likely end in miscarriage or stillbirth. Worse still, they posed a serious health risk to me.
It suddenly dawned on me that I was not merely facing a medical condition. I was in the midst of a battle. I had to make a choice. I could surrender and accept a childless life. Or I could rise and fight for my children. The former was not an option. If there was a battle, then I would fight. And if I would fight, then I would fight to win.
THE STRATEGY THAT GAVE ME VICTORY Engaging the Spiritual War
In the heat of that battle, I had to grow up quickly. I could no longer remain the young, newly married woman simply excited about being a wife. I had to become a woman immersed in God. There were moments when I felt like resigning into victimhood. I wanted people to feel sorry for me. It seemed as though I was moving from one heartbreak to another.
Baby dedication Sundays were the hardest. Parents would walk to the altar carrying their newborns. The pastors and their wives would hold the babies as the Bishop prayed. One Sunday, a woman who had been in the hospital with me—the same day I lost my son—came forward to dedicate her baby. We had delivered on the same day. Her child lived. Mine did not.
Watching her stand there nearly crushed me. But in the midst of that pain, God gave me a strategy. I gathered every scripture I could find about fruitfulness and breaking barrenness. I wrote them down. For one full year, I confessed them daily. Not casually. Not occasionally. Daily.>
Issue 1 :: April 2026
Warrior Woman Magazine
Issue 1 :: April 2026
During women’s meetings, whenever an altar call was made for those trusting God for children, I was the first to stand. I did not care that I was a pastor’s wife. I was a woman determined not to accept childlessness as my portion.
The Day Victory Finally Came
I took up what Scripture calls the sword of the Spirit—the Word of God—and declared it over my life. I raised the shield of faith, remembering that faith comes by hearing and hearing by the Word of God. I listened to sermons. I read books. I set aside one day every week to fast and pray. I went all out. The story of Hannah became my anchor. Year after year she went to the temple, misunderstood and broken, until the day God remembered her. I would remind God that He is not a respecter of persons. The same way He remembered Hannah, He would remember me.
“Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it. 11 And I will rebuke the devourer for your sakes, and he shall not destroy the fruits of your ground; neither shall your vine cast her fruit before the time in the field, saith the Lord of hosts” (Malachi 3:10-11 KJV)
Malachi 3:10–11 became deeply personal, especially the promise that the vine would not cast its fruit before its time. I declared that my womb would not release its fruit prematurely. This was no longer passive waiting. This was spiritual engagement.
Fighting Fear
After one year, I felt faith rising within me. I knew it was time. When I conceived again, however, fear attacked my mind. I would sit down and suddenly feel as though I was bleeding. I would imagine stomach cramps. The battlefield shifted from my womb to my thoughts. But I refused to lose the war in my mind. I would sit in the bathtub and play the song “I Speak Life” by Donald Lawrence. As I rubbed my stomach, I sang and declared that my child would live and not die. I was pregnant. I was sometimes weak. But I was still fighting.
The same God who had healed me years earlier from a painful ear condition that had lasted seven years was still able. As a teenager, I had been supernaturally healed during a prayer meeting after years of suffering. That testimony became my reminder: if God did it before, He could do it again.>
Warrior Woman Magazine
Issue 1 :: April 2026
Warrior Woman Magazine
The Day Victory Finally Came
This time I walked out carrying life.
At 41 weeks, I went into labour. Even then, I was cautious with my joy. I had learned not to celebrate too early. Every contraction felt like both pain and prophecy. I laboured for 27 long hours — hours filled with whispered prayers, silent declarations, and moments when I searched the faces of the medical staff for reassurance.
When the time finally came and my daughter was delivered, there was a brief second that felt like eternity. After all I had endured, I held my breath. Then I heard it. Her cry. It was not just the cry of a newborn. To me, it sounded like the sound of victory breaking through years of grief. It was the sound of a promise fulfilled. The sound of God’s faithfulness made audible.
They placed her on my chest, warm and alive, and something inside me that had been fractured for years finally settled. The fear, the tension, the guarded hope — it all dissolved in that sacred moment. Her father named her Gift, because that is exactly what she was — a gift from God. I gave her the name Gianna, meaning “the grace of grace,” because her life was layered grace. Grace that carried me through loss. Grace that strengthened me through fear. Grace that refused to let my story end in sorrow.
When I walked out of Oliver Tambo Memorial Hospital in Boksburg, South Africa, holding my baby in my arms, memories flooded my mind. Just two years earlier, I had walked into a hospital pregnant and hopeful, only to leave carrying a bag instead of a baby. I remembered the emptiness of that walk. The heaviness. The unanswered questions. This time was different. This time I walked out carrying life. Tears streamed down my face — not the tears of grief that had become so familiar, but tears of joy, relief, and triumph. I knew, deep within me, that the battle that had once threatened to define my life had not won.
Three years later, I became pregnant again. There were no dramatic complications. No terrifying emergencies. I carried my pregnancy to term and gave birth to a healthy baby boy without struggle. What doctors once warned against became effortless under the hand of God.
Today, our daughter Gift Gianna is 19 years old, and our son, Ben Achero Junior, is 16. They are daily reminders that what looks like a final verdict is not always the final word. The battle that once appeared settled in loss was overturned in victory.
God helped us. And to Him be all the glory. WWM
Issue 1 :: April 2026
Warrior Woman Magazine
Issue 1 :: April 2026