When Laughter Feels Rusty

I laughed this weekend.

That doesn't sound particularly noteworthy. I laugh all the time. I have friends I laugh with often.

But this was different. 

Once I got home, it hit me.

I don't remember the last time I laughed that much. 

I was asked to join my Catholic Emmaus womens group's advisory board earlier this spring. The annual planning retreat for the advisory board was this past weekend. We planned a lot, prayed often, read Scripture, enjoyed meals and snacks together, listened to beautiful spiritual music, deepened friendships and even had Mass Saturday afternoon with one of our parish priests. Laughter was woven through all of it.

The last several years have held a lot of heavy things. Some I've written about. Some I haven't. And maybe somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, a little of the lightness in me got buried underneath it all. 

The first few times I really laughed—not just a chortle, but the kind of big laugh that takes over your whole body—it almost felt rusty.

I noticed my heart beating faster. I noticed my breathing. And because I've become so aware of those physical sensations, my mind recognized them immediately as something familiar.

Anxiety.

Except it wasn't.

It was joy.

Somewhere in the middle of all that laughter, I found myself looking around the room at the other fourteen women.

I was laughing too. Whatever had been said really was that funny. But at the same time, I felt almost like a bystander, watching what was happening around me.

Their faces had changed. 

There was something so uninhibited about it. No one was worried about how she looked. Mouth open. Heads thrown back. Eyes squeezed shut. Some with tears running down cheeks. Just pure, unguarded laughter. 

And for some reason, I could't stop noticing it.

It was enchanting.

I think I'd forgotten what that kind of joy looks like on a person's face. 

One of the Scripture passages we reflected on was about the mustard seed—something so small, yet capable of growing into something so much larger. One of the women gave each of us a necklace with a tiny mustard seed suspended above mountains, and we all wore them throughout the weekend. 

I thought about that after I got home.

Maybe that was part of the lesson of the mustard seed for me this weekend. 

Not every way God nurtures our hearts arrives as some big revelation. Sometimes He works through something small and ordinary. 

A meal around a table.

A friendship.

A room full of women laughing until they're practically crying.

I knew I needed prayer. I knew I needed time with God. 

I didn't know I needed that much laughter.

I'm realizing how healing that laughter was for me. 

Laughter doesn't fix the things that hurt us.

But sometimes it simply reminds us that the hard things haven't taken everything from us.

Sometimes we just need to remember how good it feels to laugh anyway.

And apparently, mine was a little rusty.