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Dr. T's kind countenance inspired courage and calm as he faced Mark and me across the desk in his study.

It was a real plus in his favor to first examine the state of our hearts and minds before forcing us to face the problems our bodies might pose. We exchanged pleasantries and gave some basic information about ourselves as asked. Then Dr. T cut to the chase: "And which conception methods have you tried?"

Mark and I simply stared at each other for a minute before I answered carefully, my voice shaking: "Doctor, this is our first visit to your clinic. What method do you think we've tried?"

Awkward silence. After a beat or two we all exploded into gales of laughter. Not for nothing did Sarah the Matriarch name her son Yitzhak (Hebrew for "laughter") after waiting 90 years to become a mother.

Picture this: You're enjoying a quiet afternoon in your desert tent while your husband relaxes in the doorway, recuperating from his self-inflicted circumcision of three days ago. Suddenly he informs you that three guests have arrived for dinner. You have never met these people before; neither has he, and nothing has been prepared. After all, you have been busy caring for a sick husband who, by the way, happens to be more than a century old; and here he is calling for the fatted calf and what amounts to veal stroganoff for four (kashrut doesn't make an entrance for another 10 generations at least). You decide it must be the pain talking and comply.

The three strangers bolt the meal, ask after your whereabouts, and declare that within a year you are going to bear a child. Hello? You've just finished supervising a banquet with no advance warning; you're 90 years old, well past menopause; and even if your husband were fully recovered, this next production is going to take nothing short of a miracle since he's more than 100 years old. It's tough to be a good host these days. Your reaction to this ridiculous pronouncement is shock.

In Genesis 18:12, "Sarah laughed to herself saying, 'now that I am withered, am I to have enjoyment, with my husband so old?'"

Laughter has many causes and effects; not to mention benefits. Had I been there, I definitely would have released a cathartic cackle borne of the afternoon's stress and strangeness. Yet God seeks out your purpose in the very next verse: "Why did Sarah laugh?" Uh-oh. Here is your only chance to dialogue with the Holy One and are you ever in trouble. You see, God doesn't need to ask. Like any parent, God already knows the answer (see two paragraphs up). But let's just say it's bad form to laugh at one's Creator in public.

So in verse 15, "Sarah lied saying, 'I did not laugh,' because she was frightened. But God replied, 'No, you laughed.'" End of discussion. Fibbing, storying, tale-telling, and other forms of lying, no matter to whom, are not yet punishable by death or disconnection; that law too will not be in place for another 10 generations. As you spoke, your voice was probably trembling, which is in effect, laughing from fear. The most sincerely laughter is, after all, involuntary.

Abraham may be elderly and in pain, but he is no fool. Several chapters later (the equivalent of gestation), you do indeed deliver a son. Abraham names him Yitzhak (Isaac), which means "laughter." This time your laughter comes from relief; in your relatively safe delivery, in your son's well-being, and in the assurance that the family line will continue.

In Genesis 21:6 you declare, "God has brought me laughter; everyone who hears will laugh with me." Why not? Who wouldn't smile, let alone laugh with joy, upon hearing of a baby's arrival? Laughter is contagious. Laughter also carries many healing qualities including pain abatement, reduction of wrinkles, and a raised endorphin levels. And so Torah sets the stage for laughter in the anticipation, quest, and aftermath of family planning.

Our son's arrival from Seoul, South Korea in October 2002 was wreathed in laughter. In the custom of giving a baby a catchall nickname prior to its arrival, Mark wanted to dub our child "Pepperoni" because, as he said, "Korea delivers." I dismissed any notion of a treif moniker and instead referred to our impending arrival as "kim-chee," a spicy Korean vegetarian side dish. For all his waggishness, Mark turned into a pool of tears when Harry was first placed in his arms. And that's when I laughed like a Sarah for the modern ages.

I laughed with relief that this day had finally come. I laughed because I love Mark so much for his huge, tender heart. I laughed because our son was, and is, exquisitely healthy and beautiful. I laughed because Harry was crying loudly enough to have inherited my singer's lungs, if he could have inherited. And I laughed with God because there were no words to describe my thanks at that moment.

As a baby Harry grabbed our noses and stare quizzically as if to say, "How do you breathe through that huge thing?" When he first started to say "Mama," he knew I how much I wanted to hear it, so he gave me a look of devilment and exclaimed, "Dada!" He pronounced yogurt yorgut, airport orport, and animals aminals. Today we employ whole comedy routines for everything from getting dressed to giving kisses. Is it any wonder that his Hebrew name is Yitzhak?

Jacqueline Shuchat-Marx lives in Manalapan and is a contributing writer for The Jewish State.