As one of my seminary students was getting ready to leave after class (which really wasn’t supposed to happen because the city declared its first ever snow day in five years) she buttoned up her wool, dark grey peacoat. And it was one button off, so the buttons didn’t match their corresponding buttonholes, so the panels were uneven and her torso looked all wonky. The other seminary teacher pointed it out, and I looked at her, and I started to laugh pretty hysterically. I was holding a pile of Bibles to put away, but instead I set the books in a chair and walked around in a laughing fit. Then I sat down on a couch as tears came to my eyes. Then the student asked what was so funny. And I kept pointing at her but was unable to say anything. The laughing was getting in the way. The other teacher kept saying it wasn’t that funny, then the student looked at her crooked coat, and she even said it was wasn’t that funny. But I kept laughing continuously for the next ten seconds, my mouth gaping in a silent, spasming guffaw because I was laughing so hard. The student left, and my laughing calmed down but I had to control my brain from recalling that misbuttoned coat, because something about it triggered the hilarity button (ha!) in my brain. The unevenness? The virtually perfect student doing an accidentally goofy thing? The multilayered lopsidedness? I don’t know. I may never really know.