Sarah: The Woman Who Laughed

Aaron Abel Abigail Abihail Abner Abraham Abram Adam Ahinoam Amos Andrew Anna Asa Athaliah Azubah Barak Barnabas Bartholomew Bathsheba Benjamin Berenice Bilhah Cain Caleb Chloe Claudia Dan Daniel David Deborah Delilah Dinah Drusilla Eleazar Eli Elijah Elisabeth Elisha Enoch Ephraim Esau Esther Eve Ezekiel Gabriel Gideon Hannah Hezekiah Hosea Isaac Isaiah Jacob Jael James Japheth Jason Jedidah Jemimah Jeremiah Jesse Jesus Jethro Joanna Joel John Jonah Jonathan Joseph Joshua Judith Keturah Leah Levi Luke Lydia Magdalene Mahalath Malachi Mara Mark Martha Mary Matthew Matthias Meshach Micah Michael Michal Miriam Mordecai Moses Naomi Nathan Nathanael Noah Orpah Paul Peter Philip Priscilla Rachel Rebecca Rueben Ruth Salome Samson Samuel Sarah Saul Seth Shem Silas Simeon Simon Solomon Stephen Tabitha Tamar Thomas Timothy Uriah Zachariah Zebedee Zechariah Zedekiah Zephaniah Zilpah Zipporah

There was once a woman named Sarah, who lived in a world of tents and open skies, where families wandered from place to place with their flocks. Her name had once been Sarai, which meant “my princess.” She was married to a man named Abraham, and though she was called a princess, she didn’t live in a palace—her home was wherever their tent was pitched.

Sarah had known both comfort and hardship. She had wealth and servants, but her heart ached for something she didn’t have: a child. And that longing would shape the story of her life.

One day, Abraham came to her with eyes wide and voice trembling.“Sarah,” he said, “God spoke to me. He told us to leave everything—our land, our home, our family—and go to a place He will show us.”

Sarah looked around at the home she’d always known—the courtyard, the familiar walls, the women she worked beside. To leave it all behind because of a voice? It sounded impossible. But she saw the certainty in Abraham’s face and remembered his steadiness through every trial. She took a breath and nodded. “Then we’ll go.”

They walked for months, their camels loaded with supplies. They camped beneath stars so bright it felt like heaven had bent close to the earth. Sarah often looked up at those stars and wondered about the God who had called them. He seemed invisible and mysterious—but she wanted to believe He had a plan.

They finally arrived in Canaan, a land of hills, green fields, and distant cities. There, Abraham built altars to this unseen God, and Sarah stood beside him, watching smoke curl into the sky.

Still, her tent remained silent. Still, her arms were empty.

God spoke to Abraham again, promising that his family would become a great nation. Abraham came to Sarah, his face glowing with wonder. “He said my descendants will be as many as the stars!”

Sarah smiled faintly, but her heart sank. “That’s a beautiful promise,” she said softly. But she was old now—too old for dreams of babies.

Years went by. Seasons changed. Servants grew up and had children of their own. But Sarah and Abraham grew older and older, their hope fading like smoke in the wind.

One night, Sarah lay awake listening to the soft breathing of the camp. Why hasn’t God given us a child? she wondered. Maybe He meant for us to find another way.

So one day, she said to Abraham, “Take Hagar, my servant. Maybe she can give you a child. Then the promise will come true through her.”

Abraham hesitated, but he agreed. Hagar had a son, Ishmael, and for a time, Sarah thought her plan had worked. But as the boy grew, jealousy stirred inside her. This wasn’t the way she had imagined motherhood. The joy she’d hoped for wasn’t there.

And her heart still felt empty.

Years later—long after Sarah had stopped dreaming of babies—three travelers appeared outside her tent. Abraham hurried to greet them, offering food and water as any good host would.

Sarah stayed inside, kneading dough and listening. One of the visitors said, “Where is your wife, Sarah?”

“In the tent,” Abraham answered.

Then the visitor said something that made Sarah’s hands freeze. “Next year, Sarah will have a son.”

She nearly dropped the dough. She was ninety years old! Her husband was a hundred! It was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. And so, without meaning to, she laughed.

Not a joyful laugh, but a short, startled, unbelieving one. Me? A mother? At my age?

Then the visitor asked, “Why did Sarah laugh? Is anything too hard for God?”

Sarah’s cheeks burned. She hadn’t realized the man could hear her thoughts. “I didn’t laugh,” she said quickly.

But he only smiled. “Oh, you did.”

Something about his voice made her heart tremble. And deep inside, a tiny spark of hope flickered to life.

Months passed, and Sarah felt strange changes in her body. At first, she didn’t dare believe it, but soon there was no denying it. She was going to have a baby.

When the child was born, Sarah held him close, tears running down her face. She named him Isaac, which means laughter.

“God has brought me laughter,” she said. “And everyone who hears about this will laugh with me!”

Her laughter, once filled with disbelief, had turned into joy. The emptiness in her tent was gone, replaced with giggles, cries, and the sound of a miracle.

Sarah adored Isaac. He was her long-awaited dream come true—the child of her old age, the proof that God keeps promises. But she was also fiercely protective of him. When she saw Ishmael mocking Isaac one day, her old jealousy returned. She asked Abraham to send Hagar and Ishmael away.

It wasn’t an easy decision, and perhaps it wasn’t a perfect one. But Sarah was human—strong, loving, flawed, and real. She had waited decades for this child, and she would do anything to keep him safe.

As Isaac grew older, she often watched him run through the fields and thought about all the years she had waited. She remembered her laughter—first of doubt, then of joy—and realized both had shaped her.

Faith hadn’t come easily to her. She had struggled, questioned, even tried to take control. But through it all, she had learned this: God’s timing may not match ours, but His promises never fail.

When Sarah died, Abraham buried her in a quiet cave among the hills of Canaan — the land God had promised them. It was the first piece of that promise to truly belong to them. Generations later, people would still speak her name with honor. She was the mother of a nation, the woman whose laughter turned into faith.

Sarah’s story reminds us that faith isn’t about being perfect. It’s about holding on, even when hope feels impossible. Sometimes, it’s about laughing in disbelief—only to laugh again later, in wonder.

And if you had asked Sarah what she learned from her long, wandering life, she might have smiled and said: “Never say something is too hard for God. I once laughed at the idea of a miracle — and then I rocked that miracle in my arms.”