One Sunday, I looked out of a window to see two of my waist-high children picnicking in the backyard. Bananas and peanut butter were their delicacies. I grabbed the last saucer-sized chocolate chip cookie, a leftover from the previous night’s feast, and went out to them, dancing with it over my head as if it were a sacred wafer raised by a jungle shaman. As it was divided among the three of us, I insisted it was carved out of the sugar mountains. Before I could stick the cane-sized broken branch in the mud, they both wanted to pull this Excalibur from its resting place.

Seeing we go to Calvary, I insist that we keep festival along the way (1 Corinthians 5:8). If we must climb to our deaths, we might as well play on the mountain road. Leave the dirges for when man disobeys the Truth, for when he flees in the face of duty. But when you are in the way of truth, that is no time for a sad song but for levity, so long as it is the Spirit’s wind that lifts you. Play has been said to have meaning in itself. If asked, “What do you play for?” a utilitarian will give you an answer. A festive man could, but he won’t. He will wink and pass you a ball. He will cartwheel if kids are near.