The verse we're looking at is Genesis 21:7: "She said: Who would have announced to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children? Yet I bore a son for his old age.” It's Sarah, speaking after the miraculous birth of Isaac at an age when such a thing seemed utterly, impossibly beyond comprehension.

But the Rabbis, in Bereshit Rabbah 53, see more than just a statement of disbelief. They see layers of meaning hidden in the very words themselves.

Notice, the verse doesn't say "Who would have said to Abraham," or "Who would have spoken to Abraham." It uses the word milel (announced). Rabbi Pinchas, quoting Rabbi Hilkiya, points out this specific word choice is key. Why milel? Because the numerical value of the Hebrew letters in milel (mem-lamed-lamed) adds up to one hundred! Mem is 40, Lamed is 30, and another Lamed is 30. That's a hundred! A subtle allusion, they suggest, to the fact that Abraham was a hundred years old when Isaac was born. Isn't that amazing?

Rabbi Pinchas goes on with a powerful image: "The wheat stalk of Abraham our patriarch had been all dried up, but [now] it became full of moist kernels [melilot]." What a vivid metaphor! Abraham, past the age of fatherhood, miraculously becomes fertile again. The implication is clear: with God, anything is possible.

But the story doesn't stop there. "Sarah would nurse children" – the text doesn't say "nurse a child," but "children." Why the plural? The Rabbis tell us that Sarah, our matriarch, was exceedingly modest. Abraham, however, understands something profound is happening. He urges her: "This is not the time for modesty. Instead, expose your breasts, so that everyone will know that the Holy One blessed be He has begun to perform miracles."

And so she does. And what happens? Her breasts flow with milk like two wellsprings. Noblewomen come, wanting Sarah to nurse their children, saying, "We are not worthy of having our children nurse from this righteous woman." It's a beautiful image of blessing and recognition of the miraculous.

The Rabbis offer two perspectives on the effect of this event. Some say that anyone who came to Sarah for the sake of Heaven – with sincere motives – became God-fearing. Others, including Rabbi Acha, say that even those who didn't come with pure intentions were granted dominion in this world. However, this dominion was lost when the nations distanced themselves from God at Sinai by refusing to accept the Torah.

What does this all mean? It's a story about the power of faith, the possibility of miracles, and the responsibility that comes with blessing. It's a reminder that even in the face of seeming impossibility, something extraordinary can happen. And it's a question: What would _we_ do if confronted with such a miracle? Would we hide it, or would we share it with the world, acknowledging the divine source of such profound blessing? As Ginzberg retells it in Legends of the Jews, these stories aren't just historical accounts; they're invitations to consider our own lives and our own potential for the miraculous.