Jes Jokin’

By Stephanie Prichard –

“Knock, knock.” My five-year-old granddaughter grinned in anticipation.

Oh boy. I didn’t know she’d entered the torture-through-humor years. “Who’s there?”

“Interrupting chicken.”

“Interrupting chicken who?

She frowned. “Wait. Let’s start over. Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting chicken.”

“Interrupting chicken who?”

“Buh-katt,” she shrieked, in a pretty convincing imitation of a shrieking chicken. “Wait, Grandma!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “You went too fast.”

“Sorry, Ella. Let’s start over.”

She gulped back her disappointment. “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Interrupting chicken.”

”In—ter—rup—ting—Chi—”

“Buh-katt!” The piercing shriek segued into cackles of laughter.

“Ella, that’s funny!” I hardy-har-harred it up with her.

“Let’s do it again, Grandma! Knock, knock.”

Oh boy.

The delight of humor begins in infancy. Think of the giggles that respond to Peek-A-Boo. The surprise of boo! is the same surprise of the punch-line of a joke. The unexpected evokes laughter. Or, put another way, the abnormal juxtaposed on the normal tickles our funny bone.

That’s why Sarah laughed in Genesis 18:12 when the Lord announced that she, at age ninety, would have a son. “Therefore, Sarah laughed within herself, saying, ‘After I have grown old, shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also?’” Getting pregnant, juxtaposed on the fact that she was way past her childbearing years, had to be a joke! When Isaac, whose name means “laughter,” was born, Sarah said, “God has made me laugh, and all who hear will laugh with me. Who would have said to Abraham that Sarah would nurse children?” We are invited to giggle with her at this marvelous contradiction of normal childbearing.

Scripture shows God in several instances laughing in derision. In Psalm 2, “Rulers take counsel together against the Lord and against His Anointed, saying ‘Let us break Their bonds in pieces and cast away Their cords from us.’ He who sits in the heavens shall laugh; the Lord shall hold them in derision.” Laughable, indeed, to see man’s might juxtaposed on God’s!

Sixty-nine lines in Job 41 describe God’s awesome creature, the Leviathan. “Shall one not be overwhelmed at the sight of him? No one is so fierce that he would dare stir him up.” Nevertheless, sword, spear, javelin, dart, arrow and slingstone are flung at him. Place these paltry weapons next to the Leviathan’s airtight scales of armor, and in verse 29 you find “he laughs at the threat.”

It’s not mockery or derision that creates humor—it’s the juxtaposition of the abnormal on the normal. Unlike the Leviathan, though, we aren’t covered with a hide of armor. We can hurt and be hurt when humor is used as a weapon. But, properly used, humor pleases God. A merry heart, Proverbs tells us, “makes a cheerful countenance,” “has a continual feast” and “does good, like medicine.”

So, here you go, more clucking chickens to make your heart merry:

A pair of chickens walks up to the circulation desk at a public library and say, “Buk Buk BUK.” The librarian decides the chickens want three books, so gives them three.

Around midday, the two chickens come back, quite vexed, and say, “Buk Buk BukKOOK!” The librarian gives them another three books.

Later in the afternoon, the two chickens return, looking very annoyed, and say, “Buk Buk Buk BukKOOOOK!” Suspicious now, the librarian gives them several more books and decides to follow them.

She follows them out of the library, into a park and down to a pond. Hiding behind a tree, she gasps as the two chickens throw the books at a frog. They cackle in fury when he says, “Rrredit. Rrredit. Rrredit.”

You’ve Got Mail

By Connie Cavanaugh –

My husband Gerry wakes up happy. He discovered long ago, the best way to stay happy is to be with happy people. He eats breakfast at McDonalds.

However, when we have houseguests, I get up early and make breakfast because I don’t want people to know the truth. I stumble around the kitchen trying to say as little as possible because I don’t trust my tongue until after I’ve had two cups of strong tea.

Several years ago, at the dawning of the Internet Age, Pastor Bob, from Winnipeg, was billeted in our home. Bob bounced into my kitchen with a face-splitting grin early the next day; he obviously loved morning. One look at me should have told Bob I did not share that view.

I was slumped against the cupboard in yesterday’s clothes, waiting for the kettle to boil. Suddenly I remembered that three days earlier I had sworn off caffeine. I moaned.

“Connie!” Bob bellowed, thinking I needed cheering up. “Let’s thank God for this beautiful day!” He yanked open the shades, threw back his head and launched into “You are my suuunshine, my ooonly sunshine. You make me haaappeeeee…” He took a breath.

“Bob! Drop dead.”

Bob’s face went slack; his arms hung limp. Entering the room Gerry quickly assessed the situation and gently piloted me back to bed. He kissed me goodbye, grabbed his packed suitcase and tiptoed out.

“Get your things, we’re going to McDonalds,” I heard before pulling the pillow over my head. Gerry took Bob to the airport after their meetings because he was flying out as well.

Hours later when my head had cleared, I was filled with shame at my rudeness to our dear friend and fellow pastor. Without Gerry to comfort (“Bob’s a pastor. He’s accustomed to abuse”) or advise me (“He’ll have to forgive you or he won’t be able to preach on Sunday”) I fretted. I needed to apologize but dreaded making the call.

It came to me in a flash: “Bob has email!” Never mind that Gerry had repeatedly tried to teach me how to do email to no avail. “How hard can it be?”

Thirty minutes of random clicking amid mounting frustration and up popped an email. With Bob’s name on it! “Thank You Jesus!” Remembering Gerry’s instructions to get right to the point, I hurriedly typed:

Dear Bob,
I must apologize for being so cranky this morning. The way I treated you bothered me all day (especially since Gerry is out of town!). I hope you can forgive me. I should have warned you that whenever I go off caffeine it has a bad effect on my mood. I hope you will stay overnight again.
Still friends?
Connie

“How do I make it go?” I continued clicking until suddenly I saw Bob’s name wing it’s way Winnipeg-ward. “Whew!” My relief was short lived. There was a name behind Bob’s. And another behind that. And another. And another. I backed away in horror realizing I had stumbled into Gerry’s boss’s prayer letter for all the pastors in our denomination and pressed, “reply to all”.

I put on my pajamas, knelt by my bed and rasped: “Dear Jesus. You said You’d return. This would be a really good time.”

He tarried.

The phone awakened me early the next day. The first caller was a pastor on the East coast. It rang all day. Each wanted to let me know he was praying for me. Bob called to forgive me. “It was worth it,” he claimed. “That’s the best laugh I’ve had in years!”

A Lesson in Coffee

By Kim Stokely –

I am not a morning person. Never have been and barring an act of God, I probably never will be.

Oh, I can get up, I can technically function, but please don’t ask me to hold a lucid conversation or think about anything difficult. Difficult means anything requiring more than two steps in the thought process. Putting on my slippers, that I can do. Shuffling into the kitchen to let the dogs out, that’s pretty taxing, but I can usually handle it. Fortunately for me, my husband and children know that I improve vastly if I’m left alone until I’ve had a cup of coffee to spark the synapses in my brain.

The other morning, I woke up foggy and exhausted after an unusually busy week. I got my slippers on and let the dogs out. I smiled to myself, glad to have accomplished so much already on a Saturday morning. Things had gone so well, I decided to attempt more. I puttered around the kitchen and got a pot of coffee brewing. Finding the house still quiet I sat down to do something I hadn’t done in awhile—read my Bible.

A few minutes later, my nose tingled as the distinct aroma of fresh coffee wafted into the living room. I dragged myself back to the kitchen and grabbed the carafe. After pouring the coffee, I emptied a packet of sweetener and searched the fridge for the creamer. A dollop later and I was ready to let the beverage revive me.

One sip told me I had made a big mistake. I spit the disgusting mouthful into the sink and grabbed the carton of creamer from the counter. I groaned as I took a good look at it− egg substitute. I dumped the rest of my mug away, placed the offending product back in the refrigerator, double checked to make sure the next carton I picked up was half-and-half, and made up a new cup of coffee.

I thought about what happened as I returned to my Bible. If we’re not paying attention we can easily allow the wrong things to slip into our minds and hearts. Being a disciple of Christ doesn’t mean we can go through the motions of Christianity, it means being vigilant in all areas of life so we don’t find ourselves in compromising situations. But if we do stumble, we can pour our mistakes out to God. He is always willing to let us try again.

And note to self: Have my husband make the coffee when I’m tired.

Cut and Dry

By Rhonda Rhea –

I confess, I’ve done a bad thing. Logic warned me not to do it, but I did it anyway. I cut my own bangs. Every time I take the scissors into my own hands, I promise myself I’ll never do it again. That’s because I never fail to end up looking at little like Star Trek’s Spok, minus the ears. And yet this is definitely no way to live long and prosper.

When am I going to get it? I’m just not a skilled bang-cutter. When I try, I’m operating miles outside my area of expertise.

The gal who cuts my hair, on the other hand, knows what she’s doing around a pair of hair-cutting scissors. She can trim, gel, clip and mousse with the best of them. And she’s pretty adamant about me staying away from hair self-service. She knows whatever mess I make—and I will make a mess—she’ll have to straighten out.

Isn’t it strange that I would take the scissors into my own hands, knowing my past haircutting record? I’ve thought about it, and I don’t care how badly I needed an operation, I’m quite sure I would never snatch the scalpel from the surgeon’s hand with a, “Oh, let me do that! I saw an appendectomy on the Health Channel one time. I can so do this!”

In an eternal perspective, I guess my hair—even my appendix—is not as important as it may seem. As a matter of fact, hair and body parts are simple compared to running a life. Yet how many times have I snatched the controls on that too?

When I take control of my own life, I make a mess every time. I’m operating miles outside my area of expertise. I end up whining to the Father, “Lor-or-ord, can you fix this, plea-ea-ease?” Wouldn’t it be easier to simply be obedient in the first place?

We please God and show our love for Him by “surrendering the scissors,” so to speak, in complete obedience. Jesus said in John 14:15, “If you love me, keep my commands.”

Then in John 15:9-11, Jesus tells us that we find real joy as we’re pleasing God, keeping his commands: “As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. If you keep my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.”

Joy. And not just any joy. It’s a joy that’s complete. It’s real life. Even a longer life. Proverbs 10:27 says, “The fear of the LORD adds length to life, but the years of the wicked are cut short.”

It’s a sobering truth.

Still, did it have to say “cut short”? Just another reminder I’m spending the next couple of weeks suffering severe bang humiliation.

Fashion Advice for the Short and Stumpy

By Carol Barnier –

There is a woman in my church who is always pulled together. She is sweet, kind, thoughtful, funny AND…she is always perfectly dressed. I mean perfectly. She is just the picture of lovely. Her colors always complement her creamy complexion, they fit her beautifully, and they have just a bit of snazzy to them – enough to make me look at her with admiration…

…which I then follow up with a look of resignation. . .

…which is usually translated into a sigh when I pause to consider my own appearance at that moment. I have two (count them: one, two) “church skirts” that I typically pull out; one is for cooler weather, the other for warmer weather. (I previously had an additional beloved swirly summer skirt but I was informed by the committee-for-unsightly-in-church-offenses that it made me look like a tired bohemian Gypsy. Skirt now retired. Made into lovely throw pillows.)

But now, as I look upon this pulled together woman…let’s call her Grace, (what else) who wafts in each and every Sunday morning looking like a catalog cover, I decided it was time to actually choose my clothing with forethought and proactive intention. Gone will be my previous methodology which basically was “Does it cover my person and was it clean at some point in recent memory?”

Choose Your Shape—I began to research my topic with enthusiasm. My study quickly took me to the science of body shapes. First, I learned, one must “dress to their shape.” My many years of raising preschoolers taught me that round is indeed, also a shape, but apparently it has been callously cast aside by the fashion shape selection police. So while “round” might best suit me, apple, pear and rectangle are the standard industry choices.

Create Proportion—Next I was informed that puffy sleeves add extra dimension to one’s top half if one already has more than enough dimension to one’s bottom half. But further reading revealed that puffy sleeves are not recommended if one has either an abbreviated neck or extra flappery in the neck region. No suggestions if one has all of the above.

Height Assessment—Additionally I learned that certain accommodations can be made if one is too short. To give you perspective: I once stood behind a podium to give a speech and was later accused on an audience survey of having sat down the whole time. Apparently only my head could be seen, given a frightening rendition of the oft used “talking head.” All my animated gestures and meaningful body language were completely lost.

For those with such linear deficiencies, fashion authorities state that one must take hem lines to just above the knee to give a better sense of proportion. But a tad later, in the exact same article, they mention that if, however, one has pudgy knees, the hem length is better just below above said knee pudge.

How had they determined that you were only permitted one body flaw per person? Why hadn’t I gotten that memo long ago?

I continued to follow the lengthy flow chart of questions designed to lead me to the perfect fashion choice, which in the end…big sigh…was a burkha.

One day, when I am finally successful in taking my shape from round to apple or pear, I shall astound them all…even Grace…with my Sunday morning style. But till then, you’ll find me in my American Burkha (read that—winter pajamas) working on my latest book: Fashion Advice for the Short and Stumpy.

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