Poetry

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Mirth peeks in.
A giggle is born.
It fights its way from our throats to our noses.
We forget our place and draw attention to ourselves.
Our children roll their eyes.
Our husbands clear their throats.
Madison Avenue certainly discourages it (unless they thought of it first).

But God's heart dances when women laugh.
Oh, how He loves to hear that unladylike snort:
The kind we're supposed to suppress.
The kind that announces our deliverance.
The kind that contorts our features so that
Our countenances clash with the magazine ads.

The kind that knows a secret.
The kind that turns the face of fear red.
The kind that makes us oblivious.
Beautiful.
Dangerous.
His.

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