Gazing down at the tiny bundle quietly sleeping in the crook of her arm, Sarah felt her heart leap. Her lips involuntarily curved up in a smile. A bubble of laughter burst unrestrained from her chest. He had done it. God had done it. He had kept His word. He had fulfilled His promise. He had turned her mourning into laughter. In spite of her timid faith. Regardless of her moments of despair. In spite of the dark hopelessness that had often filled her heart. God had come through. She had a son. His name was Isaac. And Sarah laughed. (Genesis 21:6)
Laughter hadn’t always flowed so easily from Sarah’s lips. Years of sitting by and watching her friends and family birth child after child while she remained barren had drained the joy from her eyes. Congratulatory lip service had slowly leeched the happiness from her heart. Tears frequently wet her pillow. Sighs punctuated her days. Sadness shrouded her being. Mourning enveloped her soul. For all she’d hoped. For all she’d planned. For all she’d dreamed. Her praying and waiting, hoping and trusting were apparently for nothing. Her dream of motherhood seemed destined to remain just that. A dream. Unfulfilled. Impossible.
No longer could she deny the truth before her. There would be no child. No son. Ever. Long past were the days when she could conceive and bear a child. She was elderly. Abraham was old. The possibility of offspring had ceased to exist. The ache in her heart remained. The questions that plagued her mind refused to let up. In the quiet darkness of sleepless nights. In the silent busyness of her daily tasks. In the midst of pleasant moments and sweet memories. The ugly question would rear its head. Why had God kept her from having children? (Genesis 11:30; 16:1-2)
Of all the women crowding the face of the earth, why had God chosen her to be barren? What had she done to deserve this? Why was she being punished? Were her prayers not good enough? Was her faith not strong enough? Were her private tears unseen, her sobs left unheard, even by the omniscient God of the universe? Was He penalizing her for something she had done? For something she had left undone? Why, exactly, was she the current whipping boy of the Almighty?
She had tried to do everything right. From following traditions to following her husband. When God told Abraham to leave the safe settlement of Harran and set off for parts unknown, Sarah willingly, obediently, respectfully packed her bags and followed. When entering Egypt, Moses instructed her to lie about being his wife and she ended up living in Pharaoh’s palace, Sarah staunchly held her post as the obedient spouse. When Abraham told her God had promised them a child, yet she saw no sign of that fulfilled promise, Sarah tried to keep the faith. But a long time had passed since that promise. A long, barren desert of time. Now she was too old. Her body told her so. There would be no child. Not without a miracle. And Sarah was no longer sure she believed in miracles. Not for herself, anyway. (Genesis 12; 15:1-1-6)
It comes as no surprise that, when the men of God show up on Abraham and Sarah’s doorstep, Sarah has trouble believing their words. Eavesdropping behind the tent flap while mixing bread, she overheard the announcement of her impending pregnancy as it fell from the man’s lips. Well. That was laughable. Had they not seen her? Had they not noticed the lines of age wrinkling her face? Had they not seen Abraham’s snow-white hair, the stoop to his shoulders, or paused to calculate his age? The very idea had a rare giggle bubbling out of Sarah’s throat. One she tried to cover with a cough. This was not a time for laughter. She knew that. She knew the men were messengers from God. Clearing her throat again, she went back to her tasks, hoping no one heard her previous chuckle. Except they had.
Nothing goes unnoticed with God. Whether physically standing in His presence or hiding behind the tent flap, He heard that chuckle. He understood the quietly spoken words of doubt. He knew their origin. He comprehended the years of waiting and hoping on which they were founded. Although the Lord asked Abraham why Sarah laughed and scoffed and doubted, He wasn’t confused about the answer. For all the decades of her life, He’d seen and heard and known the questions that plagued her mind. He knew the aching pain and hopeless despair she felt at her barrenness. He realized her humanity couldn’t comprehend the plans of His Deity. He understood her hesitancy to believe, knew her reluctance to raise her hopes. It didn’t change the facts. Sarah, at her advanced age, would conceive and bear a son. God had spoken it and it would be. Within a year’s time, her season of mourning would give way to glorious joy. A miracle would happen. A son would be born. Laughter was on the way. (Genesis 18:1-15)
As you know, God kept His promise. In His own time. In His own way. He graciously fulfilled every word He’d spoken to Abraham and Sarah. Their joy is palpable as you read the account. Nearly as palpable as Sarah’s previous pain at being excluded from the circle of motherhood. The hurt of sitting quietly by as other women discussed first teeth, first steps, first words. The mental anguish of wondering what she’d done to cause her barrenness. The suffocating misery that robbed her soul of faith, filled it with doubt, and made her bark out a bitter guffaw at the very thought of birthing a child in her old age. The suffering that stole her joy and left her weeping courses through her words and actions. Toward Abraham when she sent him into Hagar. Toward Hagar after she conceived. Sarah’s own pain ricochets throughout her life, leaking out onto the pages of history, closely correlating with our own, yet so often we miss it. (Genesis 16:1-16; 21:1-7)
You see, friend, Sarah is just like us. Possibly more than we want to admit. When her years of desperate begging for a child came to nothing, she blamed God. Literally. She said to Abraham, “God has kept me from bearing children.” In essence, “This is God’s fault. He could change it, fix it, take away my pain. He chooses not to do so. He allows it to persist. There is no rhyme or reason behind it. But I am sad and angry and a little bitter. I want a child. For me. For you. An heir to inherit all God has promised you.” We’d be lying if we claimed to have never felt the same, however fleetingly.
Unfortunately, Sarah then set out to right God’s alleged wrongs. Firmly believing God wasn’t doing what He should, when He should, she attempted to do it herself. Tried to secure an heir for Abraham through her maid, Hagar. It was a half-baked notion clearly concocted in a haze of grief and personal longing. It worked, but she hated it. Hated every part of it. Herself for coming up with it. Her husband for capitulating. Her maid for becoming pregnant. The resulting child for being born. Not one part of her attempt at playing God brought about the peace and wholeness she hoped it would. It never does. Not for Sarah. Not for us.
By this point, Sarah’s faith is frazzled. Fried. Forgotten. Mourning has become a way of life. She’s given up on her hopes and dreams. Accepted the harsh reality of her barrenness. The protective shell around her heart is built on year after year of dashed hopes and damaged dreams. Sarah laughs when she hears the announcement that she will bear a child because her faith hasn’t been met with sight in the past. She’s terrified it won’t be now. Afraid to believe the words because they are no longer humanly possible. In her grief and pain, Sarah forgets her God is not limited by human constraints. And we are right there with her, hopelessly staring at our inabilities, insufficiencies, and inadequacies, we forget that our God is able, sufficient, and abundantly adequate. Because we’ve not gotten the desired results in the past, we tend to commit “wait and see” faith, wholly dependent on sight. (Genesis 16:1-15; 18:10-15; 21:8-21)
According to the author of Hebrews, Sarah eventually found her faith. We know the account. At 90 years of age, Sarah miraculously gave birth to a son whom Abraham named Isaac. It’s what we remember most about her story, what we hear preached and taught most often. The miracle of birth given to a barren woman beyond childbearing age. The magnificent ending God wrote to Sarah’s mournful story. It is amazing. It is awe-inspiring. It is beyond comprehension. I would never seek to diminish that. I don’t want us to forget the amazing power of God. But I also don’t want us to miss the personal lessons and correlations we can find in Sarah’s story as a whole. The pain of unanswered prayers. The scheming. The planning. The human effort pitted against the plan of God. The edge of bitterness. The moments of faithlessness. Because we have all been there. Or are there. Or will be there in the future. (Genesis 21:6; Hebrews 11:11)
We don’t have to stay there. Sarah didn’t. It must have taken every ounce of inner fortitude she could muster, but Sarah found her faith. She found the wherewithal to believe the God who makes promises also keeps them. For her. For me. For you. Whatever part of Sarah’s story you most identify with today, know that. Believe it. God keeps His promises. Whatever He has said in the past, no matter how long ago, He will do. He hasn’t forgotten. Not you. Not His promise to you. His words spoken last year, last month, or last week still stand. It may not happen when you want it to. It may not work out the way you thought it should. But God will keep His word. He will fulfill His promise. Just as He did for Sarah, God will bring you out of mourning into a time to laugh, (Psalm 4:7; 30:11; 42:5; Isaiah 40:8; 61:3-4; Ecclesiastes 3:1-8; Genesis 46:27; Hebrews 10:23; II Corinthians 1:20: Jeremiah 29:11)