Why is this night different from all other nights?
And we tell the story. But underneath the story every night is different, color, flavor, eager faces turning we forget so soon. Every night has its own story.
God sets us free and leads us thru the wilderness of each week. We follow a pillar of fire when we fall in love leading us to each other, our promised land in trembling arms and the skin of home.
We put an extra meal outside for the prophet Elijah passing by singing, roaring drunk, combing ruined cities out of his beard, his eyes gummed with honey tears like a lion’s.
Inside we tell the story, drink the cups of wine and watch the ocean rise above our heads and part to let us thru, startled deep sea creatures flickering away from our noses.
The child asking the four questions lifts a finger towards a transparent fin till his mother frowns but he won’t forget. We marked our gateposts with blood and the Angel of Death passed over and had no power on us. We are telling our story but is it only our story? Is it past or future?
Every lonely person has a promised land and stumbles thru a pillar of smoke by day. We sing the songs. “Dayenu.” If God had helped us only a little “dayenu,” it would’ve sufficed. He did it all. But is there more? Someday will we mark the gateposts with song instead of blood and Death will listen and leave our world alone? Nothing in hospital beds but spiderwebs and soldiers coming home embarrassed like little boys caught playing hookey in a war.
Will it be everyone’s story? When will we sing those songs?
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