Bad Day

Sunday was a bad day.

Bad day is an understatement for Sunday. Sunday was such a bad day that it is my new standard for bad days. Anytime from now on that I think I'm having a bad day, I'll ask myself this question:

"Are you having a threw up twice on the sidewalk outside the Amsterdam airport and then got on a plane for 2 hours of turbulence, only to come home and have your body continue to try as violently as possible to expel whatever neon green thing you ingested kind of day? No? Then it's not that bad."

New term for a bad day: stomach flu in the airport bad.

So next time you have a bad day, ask yourself, "Was it a stomach flu in the airport bad day?"

A Bit of Poetry

The Exodus--(written during worship at Zolder 50 in Amsterdam)

I have been a slave.
To performance
To others
To food
To that never ending need for approval.
I have been a slave
But I am not a slave now.
Now, I look out at the desert
The forty years of wandering to cross
and slavery beckons
"Come, rest.
Come back, leave the desert
Your masters are waiting
Come, rest."
My mouth waters
My head turns back to what was
To the call to rest.
But that rest is death.

In my exodus, God
You are the sea that let me pass
You are the finish line out of slavery
and the beginning of the journey
Cloud and fire
Water upon water
Point of no return.
You are the point of no return
and you are the promised land.
You are present in my exodus.

You are the God who brought me
over and over
out of my egypt
from my masters
I will open my mouth wide
and wait for you to fill it.

You are the sea that let me pass
You are the point of no return
You are the end in sight
You are the beginning of the journey
You are master of my exodus.

I was a slave
But I am not a slave