We rarely think of laughter as prayer. Yet some laughter rises from a place so deep, so honest, that it feels like a kind of worship — gratitude that has forgotten itself in delight. This sonnet honors that holy sound.
The Sonnet
There is a laughter older than complaint, Born not of mockery, nor sharp at the edge, But rising like a hymn from someone faint With the sheer gift of standing on this ledge. The child who laughs at sparrows in the grass, The friend who laughs at nothing much at all, The old man laughing as the seasons pass — Each one a small unrecognized recall. For God, I think, must love this kind of sound, The unselfconscious gladness without cause, The body's joy that needs no proper ground, The heart that has forgotten earthly laws. So laugh today, and let your laughing rise — A grateful prayer that reaches paradise.
Reflection
Not all laughter is holy. There is laughter that wounds, laughter that mocks, laughter that hides. But there is also a deeper kind — the laughter that bubbles up when something small and good has caught us by surprise, the laughter shared between friends, the laughter of a child who is simply alive and delighted to be so. This kind of laughter is its own form of praise.
We sometimes imagine that holiness requires a kind of permanent solemnity, as though God preferred us serious. But Scripture is full of laughter — Sarah’s astonished laugh, the singing of the redeemed, the joy of the prodigal’s father throwing a feast. The God who made laughter cannot be displeased when we use it well.
If something today gives you cause to laugh — really laugh, the kind that comes from gladness — let it. It is not a distraction from the holy work. It is part of it.
