Genesis 21:6 And Sarah said, God hath made me to laugh. (KJV)
Hagar had her baby boy, and Sarai watched as the child drew its first breath, then cried, nursed, calmed, and fell asleep. And Hagar also cried for joy and for tiredness, and then she fell asleep too. And while Hagar slept, Sarai took the child, and held him against her chest, and wished it had been hers. She ran her hand over his belly. She straightened his curled fingers and put her thumb against his jaw. The body was too perfect. She couldn’t look into his eyes. Because in the eyes she knew she’d see God’s promise fulfilled. Fulfilled without her.
And so she shook her head and closed her eyes and set the baby back into the arms of his sleeping mother. This was not her boy. It was silly to pretend. He was Hagar’s to love, Hagar’s to raise. Sarai’s own servant had replaced her. God had cut her out of the family. She was the tiniest, most insignificant footnote in God’s big, beautiful story. Worse than a footnote. Sarai was a speed bump. One of the people who got in the way.
Sarai didn’t want to be in the way any longer. So she stepped aside and watched that night as the family continued without her. She watched as Abram snuggled, held, and kissed the baby. The promised child, at last. Abram looked into his eyes and sure enough, he saw what Sarai had feared. He called the boy Ishmael, and Ishmael grew tall and strong. And Abram was content, believing God’s promise was fulfilled.
But there were more prayers and plans and purposes than Abram’s. When Sarai turned 90 years old, God spoke again and said, “Abram, you have misunderstood. This prophecy, it was never just about you. It was always about Sarai, too. You will be a father to nations, but Sarai will be the mother.”
Abram laughed. “Sarai is so old. It’s way, way, way too late for her to have a baby.” When Sarai found out, she laughed, too. But her laugh was not just in disbelief. It was a harsh, bitter laugh, full of so many years of hurt and sorrow and disappointment because Abram was right. It was too late. God’s promise was made decades ago. And if her womb was dried up then, it was desolate now, drier than the driest desert.
“She is not too old,” God said, “and neither are you.” And right then and there, God gave Abram and Sarai new names. Even though they were almost a hundred years old, God was treating them like brand-new babies. “I will call you Abraham and Sarah,” said God. “You are not old. You are not old at all. You are newborns, my little children, my newlyweds, my growing family.”
And sure enough, even though Sarah was 90 years old, she became pregnant. She couldn’t believe it. But then she felt the quickening, the holy moving and hiccuping and living happening inside of her, and she laughed again, a shocked, delighted laugh. And the laugh was not without some tears — of hope, of relief. She laughed in her old age. She laughed as she grew older and rounder. She laughed all the way into her ninth month. And her laughter drew from the well of her sorrows — a hole that was deep, so very deep, but reached a source that was cold and pure as spring water. And each laugh drew from deeper places until when she laughed her stomach contracted, and the birth began.
It hurt as her old body strained. But as the child was pushed out, the feeling deepened in pain and in sacredness. It was purifying her soul, like the deepest laughter of all. And then she screamed and gasped. And there was the baby. And Abraham stared in astonishment at his tiny, chubby fists that bent tightly around his papery, wrinkled fingers.
The boy was named Isaac, which means son of laughter. And the laughter continued. Sarah laughed watching her boy nurse, and then sleep, and wake with fluttering eyes. She laughed softly as he cuddled into her. She laughed as he grew fat and toddled across the floor, stumbling and tripping. He was her joy of joys. And laughter filled his childhood. It was as primitive to his life as breath itself.
And the laughter remains in the air today, a sound like an angel’s music that fills all of eternity. It is the sound your mother made when you were born. It is the sound your father made the first time you smiled. It is the sound of hopes realized, promises fulfilled, and joy overflowing. We laugh, we laugh, we laugh.
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