Jungle Hawk

In college, a literature professor said that laughter opens the mouth to receive truth. There is something about a good laugh that can bring down walls and clear the fog. Not all laughter is the same, or even good. But the best of laughs work powerfully. That release of breath in a million happy ripples has taken down prideful crevices in my heart seamlessly. Like the smooth cut of a knife, laughter has dislodged thoughts of self-sufficiency and perfection. 

A Bible study leader once said that often we act like a worm inside a jar full of hundreds of other worms. This worm has made it to the top of the pile, feeling like the king of the world to be positioned above his friends. However, the worm forgets he’s still just a worm. He’s no better than the other worms, even if he thinks he’s achieved grandeur at the top. 

Like the worm, I can look down on people and revel in the height I’ve achieved. This sort of thinking would be my death, except that the Lord is faithful to remind me of my wormy nature. He uses many tools, but one of my favorites is laughter. How unnerving and hilarious to finally see my reflection correctly. No graceful swan or magnificent steed looking back at me, but a dirty worm needing to be brought low. 

Some of the most beautiful people I know laugh easily at themselves. One of my best friends is a mother of eight. I was drawn to her happy countenance, reflected in the faces of her children. She first invited our family over for leftovers, asking us to bring along our own. I was mesmerized by the way very little phased this woman with sparkling eyes, who seemed to have her hands full, but always giving. I went to grab coffee from her coffee pot once, and there was peanut butter smeared on the handle. This sent us laughing so hard that we nearly peed our pants. In this happiest of homes, all was God’s story. Because my friend knows she is not the star of the show, failures and hiccups along the way hold less sticking power. Because God is the beautiful one in this home, she is free to let loose and live. 

Proverbs 15:15 says that the merry heart has a continual feast. And later, in chapter 31, that those of noble character can laugh at the days to come. 

I tend to take myself very seriously. So, when I look my inability in the eyes, I operate like a chicken with its head cut off. Yet, in all my mad flapping, laughter has had its healing touch. Looking back, the laughing looks a lot like trusting.  

How could I not laugh when I find myself digging in cow poop with my house helper to make a garden. While she swings a goliath-sized bag of poop on top of her head, to balance up the mountain back home, I wobble behind her, holding my doggy bag of poop in front of me, panting, and pining for the tidy bags of soil at Menards. 

Or when my husband was invited for lunch and served jungle hawk, a mysterious meat swimming in thick gravy. His friend proudly watched him gnaw off every bit of meat from the birdy bones. My husband is kind, brave, and a good sport, but what followed was violent in every direction. Unfortunately, we were in a village home the next day without a real toilet, and the jungle hawk came back with a vengeance, causing my husband to do unthinkable things in the restroom without a toilet or toilet paper.

Once while trying to be a gracious hostess, I made chai for my guests. Normally, I make a really good cup of chai, but today, something wild happened to the milk and it thickened to a pudding. I overboiled the spices and the tea tasted like the Macy’s perfume department. I would have tossed it, but my house helper encouraged me to serve it, hating to waste anything. To my regret, I served the spicy sludge and watched my guests choke it down, my cheeks on fire.

And then there are the weddings. Hundreds of people sit down in lines for the meal, knees touching. A giant leaf is placed in front of you and barefooted men pile every kind of lentil and bean in the known universe onto your leaf in speedy rounds. People don’t talk during the meal, but when we’re in attendance, they gawk. We have more kids than most. Our five-year-old straddles her leaf like a cowgirl, shoveling in food with her entire hand like it’s a sport, while Micah and I each have a kid on our laps, trying to eat, but constantly spilling hot food on their heads. We try to keep our kids from drinking the water offered, instead throwing a clumsy Nalgene bottle back and forth. After eating, our kids are yellow up to their elbows from the turmeric and our two youngest have rice and beans stuck in their hair. We walk out feeling entirely other. What alien planet have we come from, or to? 

When Elijah was weary and wanting to die, God fed him in the wilderness. Out of nowhere, refreshment was provided. While I haven’t received food from a raven, I have been entrusted with enough funny stories to warm our hearts on the bitterly cold days. We can sit around the fire of God’s love, toasting our feet, and feeling the deep parts of us thaw. We can let our heads fall back and laugh about our failures, because the story isn’t about us. Our humanness provides ample room for the side-splitting reality that we are not it. When laughter bursts out of the confines of my chest, fear is nowhere to be seen and I’m safe in my Father’s happy home.