God Had to Have a Weird Sense of Humour

God Had to Have a Weird Sense of Humour

Sometimes I think God laughs too hard,
Sitting up there, feet on clouds,
Watching me trip over blessings
And call them burdens.

He gives me rain when I pray for rest,
Then sunshine when I’ve just found my umbrella.
He makes sure the person I dream of
Loves poetry, but not me.

I imagine Him chuckling softly,
As I rehearse the same lessons
He already wrote on repeat
In the script of my mistakes.

He gives patience by delay,
Strength by breaking,
Faith by silence,
And love, oh love, by loss.

Sometimes I think He leans over to the angels and says,
“Watch this one. He’ll thank Me later.”
And somehow, He’s right.
I always do.

Because after every cruel joke,
There’s a tender punchline:
The rain grows gardens,
The loss clears space,
The silence makes room for prayer.

Maybe His laughter isn’t mockery,
But mercy in disguise,
A cosmic grin that holds
What my small heart cannot yet bear.

Maybe humour is His gentlest language,
A riddle meant to stretch my faith,
To teach me that irony, too,
Can be holy.

Perhaps heaven’s comedy is written in paradox:
That joy hides in the ashes,
That peace hums beneath the noise,
That even suffering,
If you sit with it long enough,
Starts sounding like grace.

So yes, God must have a weird sense of humour.
To let me stumble and still call me His.
To break me open just enough,
For light to get in.
To laugh with me,
Not at me,
Until I finally learn
That everything, even pain,
Is part of His joke,
And somehow, still love.