RULE ELEVEN
… for a Better Way to Live
Laugh at yourself and at life. Not in the spirit of derision or whining self-pity, but as a remedy, a miracle drug, that will ease your pain, cure your depression, and help you to put in perspective that seemingly terrible defeat of the moment. Banish tension and concern and worry with laughter at your predicaments, thus freeing your mind to think clearly toward the solution that is certain to come. Never take yourself too seriously.
The most utterly desolate of days are those that have not heard the sound of your laughter. A good laugh is sunshine in any house, so never let a day pass without some outward expression of your happy side, even when you’re struggling with chaos. Every time you smile, and more so when you laugh, you add precious moments to your life.
Man is the only creature endowed with the power of laughter, and perhaps is the only creature that deserves to be laughed at. The finest of all laughter, however, is that of the person who has enough self-confidence to laugh at himself. This shows the rare ability to look at oneself objectively, and if you can do that, all your worries will shrink in size.
Yes, there are rules in order to play this difficult game of life effectively, but you must never forget that it’s still a game—a game that none of us should ever take too seriously. If we don’t manage to squeeze a little joy from this day, what is there? Laughing at myself, and certainly not taking myself too seriously, is a rule of the game that I have to keep learning and relearning. Whenever I begin to act a little too professorial or pompous or fall into the “famous author” role, God always sets me up for another deserved tumble to straighten me out … until the next time.
I had just spent several days visiting radio and television stations in the Atlanta area, and I was now being driven, in a black limo, to autograph books in a shopping mall nearly two hours from the city. My schedule indicated that on the way I was to visit a small Christian radio station, where I would do thirty minutes on live radio with a gentleman known as “Reverend John.”
Eventually, we pulled up in front of a small white cottage with its white paint beginning to peel. My driver turned, half-apologetically, and said, “This is it, sir. The radio station.”
Before I had reached the top step, the front door flew open, and there stood Reverend John. Now I knew it was my man because he had “Reverend John” elaborately stitched in red above the breast pocket of his white jumpsuit.
“Welcome to our humble station, sir!” he exclaimed as he embraced me. “This is such an honor.”
We passed through what had once probably been a living room but was now cluttered with electronic equipment and piles of records and tapes. I could hear psalms being played as the reverend led me to his “studio” in the rear.
“We’ll be going on in just a few minutes,” my host said. “Have a seat there, and make yourself comfortable.”
Reverend John was nodding toward an unpainted table on which a microphone was perched precariously, attached to the boards by several nails. I slid myself onto the rough bench, wondering if my publishers, back in their plush Fifth Avenue offices, had any idea what they put their authors through. Then, to my great surprise, Reverend John lowered himself down alongside me on the bench, and it suddenly dawned on me that the microphone on the table was the only microphone, and we were going to share it. Quite a change after spending days in all the glitz and glitter and glass of the Atlanta stations. But, I reassured myself, I can take anything for thirty minutes.
On that tour the book I was promoting was The Christ Commission, and unlike so many interviewers, who never read your book before the interview, Reverend John had not only read the book but had prepared a long list of very perceptive questions, on a legal pad, which he constantly referred to once we went on the air.
I was truly enjoying our discussion when, approximately halfway through the interview, a telephone rang, loudly, in the other room. Of course, this “studio” was not soundproof, as most are, so that the rude ringing, coming in the middle of my response to a question, knocked me completely off balance, and I almost lost my train of thought as I fumbled to regain my composure.
The damnable phone continued to ring and ring. Finally, an annoyed Reverend John glanced at his legal pad, asked me the next question on his list, and then, before my horrified eyes, turned, threw a leg over the bench, stood, and vanished into the other room, presumably to answer the phone. Now I’m talking to an empty bench—and a live microphone—and I spoke … very … slowly, stalling, not knowing what I would do if I completed my response and my friend had not returned.
Finally, I had exhausted that subject, and Reverend John was nowhere. And then, for once in my life, I did something bright. I reached over and slid his legal pad around in front of me, ran my finger down his list of questions, found the next one, and said, “Reverend John, I imagine you’re wondering where I got the idea for The Christ Commission?”
… and for the next fourteen minutes, I interviewed myself!
Finally, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I had become so engrossed with my double role of interviewer and interviewee that I hadn’t even noticed that my host had returned. He pointed to the huge clock on the wall, leaned over, and said into our microphone, “Mr. Mandino, it was a great honor to have you with us today. I wish you great success with this marvelous book, and a safe trip for the remainder of your tour. God bless.”
With that, he hit a button, and “Nearer My God to Thee” went out over the airwaves while I sat back, wiping my brow. That’s when I was reminded, once again, of that very important rule of life telling us to laugh at ourselves. Reverend John was waving a file card before my eyes and looking pleased with himself.
“Mr. Mandino. I’m so sorry to have put you through that ordeal, but you handled it masterfully. That phone call was from my eighty-year-old mother in San Diego, and the last time we spoke, she promised that the next time she phoned, she would give me our old family recipe for carrot cake.”
Laugh at the world. Most important, laugh at yourself. If laughter could be dispensed at your favorite drugstore, your family doctor would have you taking some every day. It’s a much better way to live.
RULE ELEVEN
… for a Better Way to Live
Laugh at yourself and at life. Not in the spirit of derision or whining self-pity, but as a remedy, a miracle drug, that will ease your pain, cure your depression, and help you to put in perspective that seemingly terrible defeat of the moment. Banish tension and concern and worry with laughter at your predicaments, thus freeing your mind to think clearly toward the solution that is certain to come. Never take yourself too seriously.