In my childhood home, it was common to hear my dad laugh until he cried. He inherited that laugh from my grandma. I remember my friend’s face lighting up as my dad’s laughter shook the house. “I love your daddy’s laugh,” she told me. I treasured this effect his joy had on others. I was proud of him, not only for the things he had accomplished, but also for the humor he carried with him. I still am proud of him, for the same reason.
Please understand, we didn’t laugh all the time. I remember the crises, fears, bankruptcy, and prodigal children. But those episodes played out against a backdrop that never took life too seriously. I recall more laughter than sorrow around our dinner table, even when loss and pain pulled up a chair to join us.
After becoming an adult, the pressures of marriage, child-rearing, military life, and navigating foster care often became so overpowering that it was hard to breathe. But often in the midst of those dark places, luminous memories of my parents laughing at the dinner table would break through.
In the words of Chuck Swindoll, “Laughter is the most beautiful and beneficial therapy God ever granted humanity.”
At some point, I realized we had to seek joy and laughter. We needed people and stories around us that recalled our legacy of laughter. Like my grandma sewing grandpa’s overalls shut at the feet so he’d have to jerk them up violently as he left for his work on the railroad.
Our last duty station in South Carolina marked the end of a somewhat disillusioned era. David’s lofty dreams of becoming Chief of Staff of the Air Force had been deflated, and our focus had shifted from our glory to an open-handed, “What’s next, Lord?” That question took us down roads we never expected. They also granted us a higher view of life. We learned to let go of a lot of things.
When the annual “jet photos” day came around, David and I donned leather jackets in 90-degree weather, and struck a “Top Gun” pose in front of an F-16. A friend shot the photo. Her husband photoshopped the background—complete with an orange sunset, a jet slicing the sky above, and the words “Top Three” showboating themselves across the bottom of the poster. “Top Three” is the name of the universally despised job given to pilots—“flying a desk.” No engines thrumming except those of your friends as they dogfight in the skies above you. The modified title was the crowning touch to our Oscar-worthy snapshot, given the fact that David had frequently flown that desk. As had all the other pilots.
I marched into David’s office a few days later and victoriously hammered the masterpiece onto the wall. Most of the pilots gathered around and laughed accordingly. Those that didn’t laugh? Maybe they were planning to be the next Chief of Staff of the Air Force.
I’ve heard it said that “expectation is just pre-meditated resentment.” While that may be true, we are also given repeated opportunities to let go of those expectations, not out of resentment or failure, but out of a maturity that says, “Ah. I see. I can’t steer this thing. Clenched fists accomplish nothing. Maybe I should try opening my hands.”
It is imperative to “laugh at the days to come.”[1] The “foreseeable future” is, after-all, an illusion. I hope you’re having a wonderful day. If not, just go photoshop your disappointment. And let the healing laughter begin.
[1] Proverbs 31:25, NIV
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