The Laughing Fits

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Laughing so hard you that you can’t stop can be painful. I get this way reading autocorrect texts that people post on social media. Once I start laughing, the next one I read seems even funnier. And from there, I can spiral into a deliciously agonizing laughing fit.

What’s especially painful is having the urge to laugh when you know that you shouldn’t, and trying to stifle it.

But families have a way of invoking laughter in just such moments. You know you shouldn’t, but your family member who is right beside you starts shaking with silent laughter. The urge to laugh alongside just gets stronger the more inappropriate the occasion. And it feeds on itself, getting harder and harder to control.

Growing up, my sisters and I could do this to each other at the dinner table. Not that it was inappropriate to laugh at dinner, but once we got started, it was hard to stop, and one or more of us would have to excuse ourselves in order to gain composure. Often, we’d come back to the table, look at one another, and the helpless laughter would start all over again. Our exasperated parents would look at us stony-faced, absolutely at a loss as to what was so intoxicatingly funny.

I was in college when the second worst case of the uncontrollable giggles occurred. I brought a boy home for Easter dinner, and my two younger sisters, Alisa and Andrea, told my date that for dessert we were going to have “dog food cookies.” That’s what our family called the no-bake cookies made with oatmeal, cocoa, and peanut butter. My date was thoroughly perplexed and asked, “Dog food cookies?” My sisters realized how this must have sounded, and Alisa started to laugh. Andrea joined in, and then I was pulled into the hysterics. Alisa excused herself, came back, and it started all over again. I was able to calm myself eventually, but my sisters continued the laughing fit for fifteen very long minutes.

But the worst case of the laughing-fits was my fault.

It was Christmas Eve, and my sister Andrea and I sang in the church choir together. We didn’t normally sit next to each other, but decided to so for this special service. The church was large and ornate, with the choir loft situated behind the pulpit and high above the congregation. We had a panoramic view as the lights dimmed, and small candles were lit by each person down the pew rows, symbolizing the birth of Jesus, the Light of the World, coming into the world to dispel the darkness. The entire congregation sang Silent Night a cappella with their candles held aloft—a beautiful ending to a lovely traditional service.

I don’t know why I did it.

As we were singing the second verse, I leaned over and blew out Andrea’s candle. She looked at me with puzzlement, and mouthed, “Why…?” I raised my eyebrows and shrugged sheepishly. Still singing, “Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia,” I relit her candle from mine.

And blew it out again during the third verse.

Then I got the uncontrollable giggle-fits. Grown woman that I was, sitting in front of the packed-out church during the most reverent moment of the Christmas Eve service, I could not stop. It was painful, silent laughter, and tears were streaming down my face. Of course, this set Andrea off too, so now both of us were shaking and crying and heaving. Other members of the choir thought we were emotionally distraught or especially moved by the service, mistaking our not-quite-silent laughter for deep feeling. There were even offers of prayer for whatever difficulties we were dealing with. We were too embarrassed to tell the truth, so we just hung our heads and and said, “Thank you.”

Now, every year at Christmas, Andrea sends me this quote attributed to Steven Aitchison:“Never blow out someone else’s candle to try and make your one shine brighter.”

I know this saying is to be taken metaphorically, and not literally, but it still cracks me up that there is a famous quote about blowing out someone’s candle.

I may have blown out Andrea’s candle, but I wasn’t trying to bring attention to myself. I still don’t know why I did it.

However, it did divert our attention away from the service and toward my action and our ensuing laughter. Even though we were unintentionally blowing out baby Jesus’ metaphorical candle, no laughter fit of ours could ever dampen the Light of the World.

Indeed, I like to think that Jesus would have joined in with the giggle-fest.