3 Ways to Bring Laughter into 2020

I wish we’d been handed something tidier, 

something easier to sort out.

This cannot be sorted.

Here, despair and joy breathe the same air 

while beauty and horror occupy a single seat 

and dread dances with hope.

That’s just the way it is. 

So listen, the whole world might be burning 

but if we give up cake, 

if we abandon singing, 

we are certainly done for. 

~Lori Hetteen    

For the past few years I’ve felt the gentle nudge to choose a word each year, a banner of sorts to wave as I embark on another turn around the sun. 

Last year I chose ‘dare,’ knowing I needed to take a few more intentional steps toward my goal of becoming a published author. Through what could only be described as providence, I connected with a writing coach, mapped out a book outline, and tentatively submitted my proposal to a professional editor. As a recovering perfectionist who tends to avoid the risk of failure, those were daunting tasks.  ‘Dare’ was the perfect word, one I would not have chosen myself.

In previous years, my word found me before Thanksgiving–but not this year. Rather than end 2019 with the strength and determination of a focused runner, arms and legs pumping, upper body leaning forward, eagerly straining toward the new year with a new word, I limped into this year, physically, and emotionally depleted. I had no hutchpa. No motivation to do more than the bare minimum. 

While savoring the morning stillness with a steaming cup of joe however, I sensed that persistent nudge to maintain tradition. (I’m also one who believes in the freedom to break from tradition or choose no word at all. Carry on.) 

As I’ve contemplated a word for 2020, I’ve discovered that I cannot escape my loyal, lifelong friend, Laughter. The emotional heaviness of the past three years took its toll and I slowly moved away from her. With family trauma, progressive illnesses ravaging the bodies of dear family and friends, financial stress, global disasters, the unexpected deaths of loved ones, impoverished neighbors, systemic racism and the barely audible response from white evangelical leaders, pervasive loneliness, and fractured relationships, Laughter seemed almost sacrilegious to me. 

By turning from my lifelong friend however, I cozied up to cynicism, silently seething over those who live beyond the effects of political policy, those who freely exist within their middle/upper-class white bubble, those who benefit by remaining indifferent to systemic racism, those who live in spaces where disability and trauma and minorities and medically complicated kids don’t exist, those who appear unaffected by the major themes of my life–and the lives of those I love.

While I want to be a part of helping to restore broken systems (even as I’m painfully aware that I’m a part of them–and have benefited from them), I want to welcome Laughter along the way. I want to get reacquainted with this partner who for years, was an integral part of my life. 

I’m learning, through time and prayer and connection with people of all abilities, cultures, socioeconomic levels, and ethnic backgrounds, that in the midst of the struggle, we can still make space for hilarity. Laughter, in the midst of suffering, can be a courageous act of subversion, a stubborn refusal to give in to the swirling abyss of bitterness, a spark of joy that bids us to remain fiercely committed to the hard work of proximity, justice, equity, and peace. 

Our perfect example is found in our friend Jesus, who knew both lament and laughter. He identified with the oppressed, found life beyond the social margins, intentionally chose the simple ways of the poor, and wept when loved ones died. Yet he also enjoyed meals with strangers and friends, drank wine at weddings, celebrated with those who were healed, and even chose to break bread with the one who would betray him. His laughter bids me to turn from the cynicism that so easily besets me and move toward the dear friend who never left me. She was always there in the shadows, quietly waiting for me to notice. 

In this life of heartbreak and empathy, we choose Lament–and we must in order to acknowledge our grief, to work through its layers and cycles, and to grow–but we must also embrace Laughter. If we’re to live holistically we, like Jesus, must create time and space to welcome both. 

As I re-engage with this loyal friend and invite her to stay close in 2020, I have committed to three simple practices:

1. Watch 1 hilarious video (America’s Funniest Home Videos, SNL, etc.) or listen to/ read one hilarious article each week (I enjoy NPR’s Wait, Wait…Don’t Tell Me!).
2. Post a personally funny story about my life on social media twice/month. This requires me to pay closer attention to the hilarity in our home and beyond.
3. Read 4 books this year on the subject of humor and/or by an author who writes in that genre. (A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson is one of my all-time faves.)

Laughter was never meant to delay, dilute, or deny the grief in our world, the grief in our homes, the grief in us. She never asks us to choose between her or Lament. She graciously offers instead, a reminder that anguish will not have the last word, that there is good to be found in the Giver of humor and hope, that we need not ‘give up cake or abandon singing.’  

Here’s to a year of lament and laughter. Weeping and singing. Raw spinach and cake. 

Join me?

Featured photo by Henry Be at Unsplash