Laughter Does Good...

The Scriptures tell us,

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the
bones. Prov 17:22 NIV

A happy heart makes the face cheerful, but heartache crushes the spirit.
Prov 15:13 NIV

For the despondent, every day brings trouble; for the happy heart, life
is a continual feast. Prov. 15:15 NLT

I mention these verses for two reasons.

One, I was not feeling well when I got up this morning. I hurt, I was tired from not sleeping well the last 4 nights, and generally I was feeling lethargic and crabby. Hard to believe, I know, but I was. Even my quiet time was dry. I needed an attitude adjustment and a change of focus.

The other reason I share the verses from Proverbs is to introduce the following "attitude adjuster" which I received in a email this morning. About half-way through I burst out laughing. Laughter is a great medicine! So, here's to a few chuckles. I have included the entire article as I received it-including the commentary in the opening paragraph.

The article was written by Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated. He details his
experiences when given the opportunity to fly in a F-14 Tomcat. If you aren't
laughing out loud by the time you get to 'Milk Duds,' your sense of humor is
seriously broken.'

Now this message is for America 's most famous athletes: Someday you may be
invited to fly in the back-seat of one of your country's most powerful fighter
jets. Many of you already have : John Elway, John Stockton, TigerWoods to name a
few.

If you get this opportunity, let me urge you, with the greatest
sincerity... Move to Guam .

Change your name.

Fake your own death!

Whatever you do. Do Not Go!!! I know.

The U.S. Navy invited me to try it. I was thrilled. I was pumped. I was
toast! I should've known when they told me my pilot would be Chip (Biff) King of
Fighter Squadron 213 at Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach .

Whatever you're thinking a Top Gun named Chip (Biff) King looks like, triple
it. He's about six-foot, tan, ice-blue eyes, wavy surfer hair, finger-crippling
handshake -- the kind of man who wrestles dyspeptic alligators in his leisure
time. If you see this man, run the other way. Fast.

Biff King was born to fly. His father, Jack King, was for years the voice of
NASA missions. ('T-minus 15 seconds and counting .' Remember?) Chip would charge
neighborhood kids a quarter each to hear his dad. Jack would wake up from naps
surrounded by nine-year-olds waiting for him to say, 'We have liftoff'.

Biff was to fly me in an F- 14D Tomcat, a ridiculously powerful $60 million
weapon with nearly as much thrust as weight, not unlike Colin Montgomerie. I was
worried about getting airsick, so the night before the flight I asked Biff if
there was something I should eat the next morning.

'Bananas,' he said.'

For the potassium?' I asked.

'No,' Biff said, 'because they taste about the same coming up as they do
going down.'

The next morning, out on the tarmac, I had on my flight suit with my name
sewn over the left breast. (No call sign -- like Crash or Sticky or Leadfoot.
But, still, very cool.) I carried my helmet in the crook of my arm, as Biff had
instructed. If ever in my life I had a chance to nail Nicole Kidman, this was
it.

A fighter pilot named Psycho gave me a safety briefing and then fastened me
into my ejection seat, which, when employed, would 'egress' me out of the plane
at such a velocitythat I would be immediately knocked unconscious. Just as I was
thinking about aborting the flight, the canopy closed over me, and Biff gave the
ground crew a thumbs-up.

In minutes we were firing nose up at 600mph. We leveled out and then
canopy-rolled over another F-14. Those 20 minutes were the rush of my life.
Unfortunately, the ride lasted 80..

It was like being on the roller coaster at Six Flags Over Hell. Only without
rails.

He did barrel rolls, snap rolls, loops, yanks and banks. We dived, rose and
dived again, sometimes with a vertical velocity of 10,000 feet per minute. We
chased another F-14, and it chased us. We broke the speed of sound. Sea was sky
and sky was sea. Flying at 200 feet we did 90-degree turns at 550 mph, creating
a G force of 6.5, which is to say I felt as if 6.5 times my body weight was
smashing against me, thereby approximating life as Mrs. Colin Montgomerie.

And I egressed the bananas.

And I egressed the pizza from the night before.

And the lunch before that.

I egressed a box of Milk Duds from the sixth grade.

I made Linda Blair look polite.

Because of the G's, I was egressing stuff that I never thought would be
egressed.

I went through not one airsick bag, but two.

Biff said I passed out. Twice.

I was coated in sweat. At one point, as we were coming in upside down in a
banked curve on a mock bombing target and the G's wereflattening me like a
tortilla and I was in and out of consciousness, I realized I was the first
person in history to throw down.

I used to know 'cool'. Cool was Elway throwing a touchdown pass, or Norman
making a five-iron bite. But now I really know 'cool'.

Cool is guys like Biff, men with cast-iron stomachs and freon nerves. I
wouldn't go up there again for Derek Jeter's black book, but I'm glad Biff does
every day, and for less a year than a rookie reliever makes in a home stand.

A week later, when the spins finally stopped, Biff called. He said he and the
fighters had the perfect call sign for me. Said he'd send it on a patch for my
flight suit.

What is it?? I asked.

'Two Bags.'

God Bless America