Welcome to another tale of my self-loathing.
My friend Cathy is an incredible musician and worship leader in her own right, but graciously agreed to accompany me last weekend as I led worship for our church’s women’s retreat.
Cathy limped into this retreat, literally, with a broken little toe. Her other two detriments over the weekend were oversized luggage and a friend who laughs at her pain.
Cathy packed a huge suitcase, another small bag and a couple of other (large) personal items. Among said personal items were a number of books. Cathy is an avid reader and does not get much alone time, being the mother of 2 small boys. She wanted to soak in every moment of solitude. Seriously, it looked like the woman was going on a vacay to Disney World for a week. Before you think me judgemental, note that the trip was just barely over 24 hours.
Now here’s the part where I laugh inappropriately.
As we were departing, I took hold of Cathy’s small bag & other personal effects. This left the grand-daddy of all rolling suitcases for her to pull down a long, narrow corridor. She dropped the case (filled with heavy books) on the toe in question before exiting the room. I laughed. HARD. Not because I enjoyed seeing my friend hurt herself but because she really made a funny face. I know. It’s inexcusable. I hate myself.
She turns the corner and BAM! Drops it again on alleged broken toe.
By this point, I am nearly on the floor. I cannot help myself. The laughter had consumed me.
Inappropriate laughter is my Achille’s heel.