I wasn’t the kind of servant people remembered. I kept my head down and did my work, unnoticed among Abraham’s many tents. But that morning, the whole camp was buzzing, and I could hardly carry the water jars without trembling with excitement.
You see—I was there when it happened. When Sarah gave birth to Isaac.
I had never heard such laughter before. Deep, joyful, freeing laughter that echoed from Sarah’s tent like music. She had waited so long—too long, people whispered. She was ninety, far past the age when most women gave birth. Some thought it was impossible. I might have thought so too.
But Abraham believed. He always did. I remember how he told us, months ago, that God had promised him a son through Sarah. Not Hagar, her maidservant—not Ishmael, her firstborn’s son—but Sarah. His wife. His partner. Even she laughed when she first heard it. Not out of disrespect, I think, but from the ache of too many empty years. From the pain of waiting.
Now, here he was. The boy they named Isaac—“he will laugh.”
I peeked inside the tent when no one was looking. Sarah cradled him with such awe, as if afraid to blink and find he wasn’t really there. Abraham stood beside her, his hands still trembling with joy. I had never seen him like that—silent, eyes full of tears.
Later, I overheard her speaking to the women gathering near the fire.
“Who would have dared say to Abraham that Sarah would nurse a child?” she said, her voice still breathless. “Yet I have borne him a son in his old age.”
There was quiet for a moment. Then laughter. Not the cruel kind. The kind that lifts burdens and says, “God saw us.”
That night, I sat by the edge of the tents, staring at the stars just like Abraham used to. He once told me that God made a promise that his children would be as countless as those stars. At the time, it felt like a beautiful dream, far from reach. But now, with that one baby’s cry breaking the silence of the desert night, I believed.
God keeps His word—even when it seems too late.
It changed something in me. I had lived among these tents for years, doing as I was told, never daring to hope or pray for more. But if God remembered Sarah, if He fulfilled a promise after decades of waiting—maybe He could see me too. Maybe He hears even a servant’s quiet longing.
Isaac’s birth wasn’t just for Abraham and Sarah. It was for all of us. Proof that God’s promises are not empty. That even in the driest places, laughter can be born.
I wasn’t the kind of servant people remembered. I kept my head down and did my work, unnoticed among Abraham’s many tents. But that morning, the whole camp was buzzing, and I could hardly carry the water jars without trembling with excitement.
You see—I was there when it happened. When Sarah gave birth to Isaac.
I had never heard such laughter before. Deep, joyful, freeing laughter that echoed from Sarah’s tent like music. She had waited so long—too long, people whispered. She was ninety, far past the age when most women gave birth. Some thought it was impossible. I might have thought so too.
But Abraham believed. He always did. I remember how he told us, months ago, that God had promised him a son through Sarah. Not Hagar, her maidservant—not Ishmael, her firstborn’s son—but Sarah. His wife. His partner. Even she laughed when she first heard it. Not out of disrespect, I think, but from the ache of too many empty years. From the pain of waiting.
Now, here he was. The boy they named Isaac—“he will laugh.”
I peeked inside the tent when no one was looking. Sarah cradled him with such awe, as if afraid to blink and find he wasn’t really there. Abraham stood beside her, his hands still trembling with joy. I had never seen him like that—silent, eyes full of tears.
Later, I overheard her speaking to the women gathering near the fire.
“Who would have dared say to Abraham that Sarah would nurse a child?” she said, her voice still breathless. “Yet I have borne him a son in his old age.”
There was quiet for a moment. Then laughter. Not the cruel kind. The kind that lifts burdens and says, “God saw us.”
That night, I sat by the edge of the tents, staring at the stars just like Abraham used to. He once told me that God made a promise that his children would be as countless as those stars. At the time, it felt like a beautiful dream, far from reach. But now, with that one baby’s cry breaking the silence of the desert night, I believed.
God keeps His word—even when it seems too late.
It changed something in me. I had lived among these tents for years, doing as I was told, never daring to hope or pray for more. But if God remembered Sarah, if He fulfilled a promise after decades of waiting—maybe He could see me too. Maybe He hears even a servant’s quiet longing.
Isaac’s birth wasn’t just for Abraham and Sarah. It was for all of us. Proof that God’s promises are not empty. That even in the driest places, laughter can be born.
