Pesach

Because, of course, the combination of horseradish, wine, and dense meats that have cycled into my gut are, in some fashion, alien, I'm struggling to sleep - here I am writing. When at all possible, I avoid wine, because it tastes bitter, and I despise bitterness (beer, wine, chocolate, coffee, etc). So this holiday hits me worse than most, due to its ceaseless influx of wine into my baby belly, and the violent partaking of bitter herb which ravages my sinuses and mauls my stomach.
Anything that tastes this bad should be outlawed, right? But so should slavery, so it is the weakest of analogies, and grants some tiny, infinitesimal perspective on the horror that is slavery, and the memory of redemption, and its cost.
But I'm glad of friends, feasts, and remembrance, even of events that transpired long before my birth, long before my parent's parent's births.  There is something fascinating about legacy, and the Jewish legacy in particular, and I feel like I'm reclining with Yeshua at the table, right there beside Thomas, breaking unrisen bread while my stomach is churns with a precognizant warning of the terrors of the impending night. And I'm sitting here in my comfortable world saying, oh Lord oh Lord, please take this cup from me, and I'm not even about to be crucified. I'm actually praying about each literal cup.
And now I'm tipsy tipsy from tippling too much and being in the weight class of puppies, and sleep is evasive. I would watch the moon, but I fear being locked out; I would count sheep, but my stomach wants no mention of sheep at this juncture, thank-you-very-much, though it was delicious.
And so I just lie here, staring at the ceiling lit by the passing cars in the street beneath, wondering whether my stomach is the mortar and my diaphragm the pestle, or what sort of animal is bleating in my gut, complaining about not being passed over. But sleep is not coming.

Thank you friends, for coming. And happy passover to everyone. Remember.