The element of surprise on each of our STAMP trips to Russian summer camps was the campsite itself. There was the camp at a school where the water was turned off every afternoon. Or the camp in an old Soviet Young Pioneer camp with huge fallen trees resting on rickety cabins (including ours). Then there was the site which was simply an open field in rural Russia. They called it "Russia extreme" and many of the camp leaders were curious to see how we American Christians would handle it.

At this camp, without running water period, the camp cook cut the bottom off an empty five-gallon water jug, turned it upside down, lashed it to a tree, filled it with river water, and created a handwashing, dishwashing station—you just had to remember to open the cap exactly right to prevent water from gushing out.

Considering what happened next, it's a good thing that jug was fillled with river water, not drinking water.

I headed to the water station to wash my hands after arts and crafts, waving to the cook prepping the evening’s meal under the food tent. At the station, I unscrewed the cap. Oh, oh, just a bit too far lefty loosey. I quickly tightened the cap and tried again. Oh, oh, more water poured out.

It was in between attempts number four and seven, as I quickly closed off the makeshift tap, trying to spare the precious water for uses other than my hands, I began to laugh each time the cap fell into my hands and more water poured out. As amusing, embarassing and clumsy as it was, I figured my hands were clean, so I did a grand puddle stomp in the mud puddle I created, looked up, waved goodbye to the cook and went on to join the next activity.

That evening, the camp director (a friend from our previous STAMP trip) mentioned the washing station incident to me. She had heard about it. An apology for wasting water was on the tip of my tongue, but she continued, “The camp cook watched you the whole time, waiting for the American to get impatient and angry about the water. Instead, he saw you laughing at yourself. That impressed him. He said that Russians have a hard time laughing at themselves.”

I think it’s more universal than that. Adam’s fallen race doesn’t like to laugh at itself. When we laugh at ourselves, it’s a blow to our self-importance; it’s a blow to our pride; it’s a blow to carefully crafted reputations.

The apostle Paul didn’t write “laugh at yourself” to the Philippian Christians, but he did write, “Do nothing from selfish ambition or empty conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.” (Philippians 2:3)

Self-importance, pride and reputation aside, sometimes, honestly, I'm unintentionally funny. There's general acceptance that laughter is good for our physical and emotional health. It's good medicine, but it isn't the cure for Adam's fallen race. The cure came when Jesus "emptied himself of all but love, and bled for Adam's helpless race."

One closing note on laughing at oneself—according to my mother, if we laugh at ourselves, we always have something to laugh about. There are days when I am a never-ending source of comic relief.