Not a lot of detail is given about the post resurrection, certainly not in comparison to his death and ministry. Just read the Office this week and you will find yourself re reading accounts of the resurrection and I think I know why the church fathers and mothers did this. They knew we would forget by Friday or if you are like me by Tuesday morning. We know he ate fish sandwiches with Peter, we know he walked through a wall or two, we know he met Mary in the garden, (and if I were Mary I would be a little annoyed that he didn't come home with me), we know he walked along a road for quite some time with two people from Emmaus and had toast with them, (and we have drawn so many allegories and metaphors and even developed a whole spiritual renewal program based on that event), we know he appeared to about 400, and we know some saw him take off to heaven. I did try one of those walks to Emmaus events once and I must confess Jesus did not come up and eat toast with me. In fact, I was very much alone the entire weekend. Everyone else was having toast, but I was still trying to recognize Jesus. That is another blog series completely all together. I do take great comfort in the fact that I have a minister friend who said he would have been without toast too.
Humans tend to do that with extraordinary events. Forget them, water them down. We tend to move very quickly to the next "big" thing. We tend to minimize the holy in our lives. I am not sure why, except that we do. What usually ends up happening is by the following Friday, we have completely forgotten Sunday. We are bogged down in "ourselves" again.
Personally, I forgot about Sunday by Tuesday. And by Wednesday, it might as well as been Saturday again. But on Thursday, I was reminded of Sunday again. And I was struck how quickly I forgot.
It was this small gift of kindness. She unwrapped carefully. It was wrapped up in paper towels and sealed in a Ruth's chicken salad container. I tried to guess what it was, I was so excited. I was screaming out guesses..like it must be chocolate...it must be cake...it must be peanut butter cookies...well, you get my point. I obviously was hungry. It was an Easter egg! It had been blown out, (every time I try to do this, I end up with a pseudo aneurysm), and had decorated with zenderlings. It was the most beautiful egg I had ever seen. I know I did not express my thanks or surprise or delight enough, mainly because I was too bogged down with "me". But I did cry on the way home and I did place it on my mantle. I do not think I will pack it up with all my other Easter "stuff". I think I will keep it out all year. To remind me that it is Easter everyday.
Resurrection moments fill our lives and mostly we do not see them. And this is so sad. Because this is the message of the resurrection...this is the message...
"I have come so you may have life abundantly..."
Everyday.
Life abundantly in the midst of...
death
worry
taxes
hunger
thirst
abandonment
betrayal
when no one understands
exhaustion
when you do not know what to do
when you wonder if you got it all right
when you are standing in the check out line
when you fill your tank with gas
when you are lonely
when you are depressed and anxious
when you don't think you can
LIFE is there abundantly....Life is there...it is the promise...you just have to look for it...and sometimes it is just a egg wrapped in paper towels in a plastic Ruth's chicken salad container....
And thankfully she gave me that egg...because I am the one who needs to be reminded daily that I am a Christian and not spend so much time reminding everyone else that I am Christian.
Grateful for
eggs on Thursdays
memory lessons
golden finches
cold April mornings
sweaters
Irish spring soap
hot orange tea
toast even if I eat it by myself
butter
and Mandissa
Showing posts with label Easter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Easter. Show all posts
Friday, April 13, 2012
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The Silence of Saturday
I should not be surprised at all that he asks questions. That is what kids do. They ask questions that parents struggle to answer.
He usually wants to know when he will hit his growth spurt. He really wants to know when he will be an "adult." He wants to know who he will marry and how will he know she is the right one. He wants to know what he should do as an adult. He really wants to know how he will figure all this out. His mamma does not know. His mamma on her best days can not answer these questions for herself.
But Saturday he wanted to know two things. And his mamma didn't know the answer to those questions either. He wanted to know what the disciples did on Saturday. And he wanted to know when we would find out about the resurrection.
I told him as we dug in the dirt and pulled weeds and cleaned up the garden, I don't know what they did. The gospels were remarkably silent about Holy Saturday. But I suspect they told the story. I suspect as all grieving people do they told the story of their loved one over and over and over again until it became real. They told the story so they would remember. They told the story so everyone else remembered too and didn't forget the importance of the one gone. I suspect that it was here the gospels began. But I told him I really don't know. But it was a good question to think about. What do you do when hope is gone? How do you choose to respond when it appears to be over? How do you go on? What do you cling to when what you were clinging to is no longer? What do you do when you don't know what to do? How do you get back up when it appears you are defeated? What do you do when the worst thing has happened? I told him I hope he remembers this...For each week of his life...there is only one Saturday...AND there is only one Sunday. And I told him he gets to choose which day he will remember. I told him which day he chooses to live in determines whether or not he lives in joy or despair. I told him he gets to write the story. I told him that I hope he gives no credence to the Saturdays of his life...that he views the Fridays as Good...and in the spirit of the gospels...focus on Sunday...focus on Sunday...don't make Saturday the highlight. And the gospel writers could have...they could have told the story differently....The gospel writers could have focused on the silence of Saturday and not the applause of Sunday...It would have been easy to do...It would have been easy to take that awful story of Friday, live in Saturday and never see the truth of Sunday...and had they chosen to focus on the silence of Saturday instead of the thunder of Sunday...then the truth of the resurrection would have never left that garden.
I laughed at his second question. Laughed hard. And reminded him that when he was 5 and he ate all of his chocolate Easter bunny (all three of them), by 9 am in his church clothes and unbeknownst to me, and he was covered in chocolate and I was struggling just to get him clean enough for church (as if), and I was frustrated that his Easter shirt was a chocolate mess, and his shoes looked like he had played 9 innings of baseball in them, and I was in tears, and my ham was not glazed and my table wasn't set and I had 15 coming to dinner, and my cake was less than perfect, he said this...."Don't worry Mom...they will tell the same story next year." They will tell the same story next year.
So I said to him, I guess we find out about 11 am. About the time the choir sings the first note Charles Wesley's most famous hymn (or at least I think so, but then he wrote about 1000 or more so, who really knows)....Christ the Lord is Risen Today...Alleluia... But I also said, isn't it sad that we can't remember from one year to the next much less one week to the next...the joy in the story...that death is no more...that hope is alive and well...and isn't it really sad that for the most part we only sing that very famous hymn only on one day of the year...and isn't sad that we behave on most days as if we have nothing at all to be joyous about...when we have everything in the world to be joyous about...everything...and isn't it sad that we live as if the silence of Saturday says it all. It is a choice. We choose which day will be the highlight reel of our own stories. Do not live as if Saturday says it all and is if you have never heard the story of Sunday. Live as if it were 11 am Easter Morning every day of your life...
And when I read her blog this morning, I think she was right. And I read it through tears. It is the best way to live on Easter Monday or any Monday for that matter. And I think she is right, we all live through Fridays and Saturdays and wonder is it really worth it...and it comes down to this......will we focus on the silence of Saturday or will we live in the thunder of Sunday on Monday?
Choosing joy all my dear friends because all is grace...
For the rest of the story on how to live on Easter Monday..www.aholyexperience.com
He usually wants to know when he will hit his growth spurt. He really wants to know when he will be an "adult." He wants to know who he will marry and how will he know she is the right one. He wants to know what he should do as an adult. He really wants to know how he will figure all this out. His mamma does not know. His mamma on her best days can not answer these questions for herself.
But Saturday he wanted to know two things. And his mamma didn't know the answer to those questions either. He wanted to know what the disciples did on Saturday. And he wanted to know when we would find out about the resurrection.
I told him as we dug in the dirt and pulled weeds and cleaned up the garden, I don't know what they did. The gospels were remarkably silent about Holy Saturday. But I suspect they told the story. I suspect as all grieving people do they told the story of their loved one over and over and over again until it became real. They told the story so they would remember. They told the story so everyone else remembered too and didn't forget the importance of the one gone. I suspect that it was here the gospels began. But I told him I really don't know. But it was a good question to think about. What do you do when hope is gone? How do you choose to respond when it appears to be over? How do you go on? What do you cling to when what you were clinging to is no longer? What do you do when you don't know what to do? How do you get back up when it appears you are defeated? What do you do when the worst thing has happened? I told him I hope he remembers this...For each week of his life...there is only one Saturday...AND there is only one Sunday. And I told him he gets to choose which day he will remember. I told him which day he chooses to live in determines whether or not he lives in joy or despair. I told him he gets to write the story. I told him that I hope he gives no credence to the Saturdays of his life...that he views the Fridays as Good...and in the spirit of the gospels...focus on Sunday...focus on Sunday...don't make Saturday the highlight. And the gospel writers could have...they could have told the story differently....The gospel writers could have focused on the silence of Saturday and not the applause of Sunday...It would have been easy to do...It would have been easy to take that awful story of Friday, live in Saturday and never see the truth of Sunday...and had they chosen to focus on the silence of Saturday instead of the thunder of Sunday...then the truth of the resurrection would have never left that garden.
I laughed at his second question. Laughed hard. And reminded him that when he was 5 and he ate all of his chocolate Easter bunny (all three of them), by 9 am in his church clothes and unbeknownst to me, and he was covered in chocolate and I was struggling just to get him clean enough for church (as if), and I was frustrated that his Easter shirt was a chocolate mess, and his shoes looked like he had played 9 innings of baseball in them, and I was in tears, and my ham was not glazed and my table wasn't set and I had 15 coming to dinner, and my cake was less than perfect, he said this...."Don't worry Mom...they will tell the same story next year." They will tell the same story next year.
So I said to him, I guess we find out about 11 am. About the time the choir sings the first note Charles Wesley's most famous hymn (or at least I think so, but then he wrote about 1000 or more so, who really knows)....Christ the Lord is Risen Today...Alleluia... But I also said, isn't it sad that we can't remember from one year to the next much less one week to the next...the joy in the story...that death is no more...that hope is alive and well...and isn't it really sad that for the most part we only sing that very famous hymn only on one day of the year...and isn't sad that we behave on most days as if we have nothing at all to be joyous about...when we have everything in the world to be joyous about...everything...and isn't it sad that we live as if the silence of Saturday says it all. It is a choice. We choose which day will be the highlight reel of our own stories. Do not live as if Saturday says it all and is if you have never heard the story of Sunday. Live as if it were 11 am Easter Morning every day of your life...
And when I read her blog this morning, I think she was right. And I read it through tears. It is the best way to live on Easter Monday or any Monday for that matter. And I think she is right, we all live through Fridays and Saturdays and wonder is it really worth it...and it comes down to this......will we focus on the silence of Saturday or will we live in the thunder of Sunday on Monday?
Choosing joy all my dear friends because all is grace...
For the rest of the story on how to live on Easter Monday..www.aholyexperience.com
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Would you like one egg or two with that pancake?
The gospel writers are remarkably quiet today. The Passion narrative does not include Wednesday. I don't know why. I don't believe for a minute Jesus and company were staying in that day. But if one is to believe the narrative, nothing gospel worthy happened. (The Church fathers were so lost as to what to include in the Daily Office during Wednesday of Holy Week, that we actually flip all the way to Acts and we read about John Mark. Talk about ruining the ending, here it is approaching the climax of the story and we jump ahead to read about the early church, which was all about Easter). But I think Jesus and his buddies were dyeing eggs. He would have loved doing that. And just having to referee the turf wars as to what color the eggs were going to be, would have given Jesus pause. And I can just hear Judas telling Jesus that there was only enough money for 1 dozen. That was one egg a piece. When I was little, (there were three of us kids,) my mom only boiled a dozen eggs and we each got 4. This was very distressing to me because I never got to dye an egg in every color. And I think it was this early childhood trauma that is the root of my egg decorating compulsion. How was I ever going to work that through in therapy? Guess what? We never celebrated Palm Sunday either.
The first year I bought 2 dozen. I held Davis' hand (he was 6 months old) and dropped them in the cups. I know, by now, everyone is thinking I am one very neurotic mother when it comes to creating childhood memories for my child. At 6 months, I am forcing him to dye eggs. Forcing. I learned today that most sane people, and I never claimed to be, think 6 months old is a wee bit early to dye Easter eggs. It is not like the dye is toxic. But probably sane mothers don't do this because babies have not unclenched their fists yet. But not me. Since I was not going to have a palm branch experience or Kodak moment, by golly we were going to dye eggs. The next year he was 18 months old and we dyed 9 dozen. Yep. 9 dozen. I have a very special egg holder that gently slides the egg into the cups of dye. And much to my very grateful surprise, he loves to dye eggs too. Still. We dyed eggs in every color and no matter how you hard you try...dipping the egg in all the colors still makes brown. I am not sure my heart would have recovered if he had hated decorating Easter eggs. That would have probably been therapy worthy. The palm branch disaster was about all the momma disappointment over Easter I could take.
Discovering Pinterest this year has opened my world to the many, many ways to decorate Easter eggs. My egg decorating is pretty simple. I have tried "blowing" the egg out, but have only succeeded in breaking the eggs and causing a horrific migraine. I have used waxed to make designs. One year I made polka dot eggs. One year they were all monogrammed. I included the cat, the fish, every Tele Tubbie, and every friend Thomas the Tank had. Davis did have 108 eggs to dye. I have a friend at work whose daughter decorated the most amazing eggs this week. The technique was called zenderling. (I think.) They were stunning. Look it up on Pinterest. So I was amazed to learn this year of Greek Easter eggs. In the Orthodox tradition the eggs are dyed blood red. And I had to try it. THIS YEAR.
The English word for "Easter" comes for the word "Eostre". An Anglo-Saxon legend tells how the Saxon goddess Eostre found a wounded bird and transformed it into a hare, so that it could survive the Winter. The hare found it could lay eggs, so it decorated these each Spring and left them as offering to the goddess.
Rituals related to the goddess Eostre focus on new beginnings, symbolized by the Easter egg, and fertility, which is symbolized by the hare (or Easter bunny). Who knew? Originally bird eggs were dyed and somewhere it changed to chicken eggs. Which makes me think of last night.
I had dinner with my mother in law, and we ate at one of those all you can eat buffets with a Japanese theme, if you can imagine, which by the way, until last night I could not. I hate buffets. Besides the obvious health risks, the food sucks. This little adventure last night caused nightmares. I now have developed buffet PTSD. The first buffet station had octopus and I could actually see the suction cups. It had squid and I think that last tray was eel. I skipped all of that and went straight to the salad bar and bread. My mother in law sits down and says, "Look, I found fried frog legs. Try one, Kathleen, they taste just like chicken." You would have to know my mother in law to appreciate the next 10 minutes. She is one of those southern ladies who wants to try everything on your plate and insists that you taste everything on hers. Insists. Once, Davis called me on his cell phone lamenting that Grammy had force fed him hush puppies. Grammy kept telling me how delicious they were and they were the best ever. This concerned me greatly because apparently she had eaten enough frog in her life to declare these the best ever. This also implies that there is a worst ever fried frog leg. After swallowing a hurl, I began to wonder, where do you buy restaurant grade frog? And what cookbook do you find that recipe? And they do so closely resemble chicken legs, that never, never, never again will I order chicken out. And I am seriously rethinking the whole vegan thing. Ok, now my narrative has seriously wandered off track...back to Greek Easter Eggs.
During Lent, eggs are forbidden. Who knew? I certainly did not. In the Greek tradition the eggs are dyed blood red to symbolize the blood of Christ and each family member only gets 1 egg, which they break open and eat one Easter Sunday to symbolize the resurrection. Actually the tradition is more complicated than this, but you get the point. So, in theory, I only had to boil three eggs, four if you include my cat. Davis and I decided to do 3 dozen. Vance kindly lets us dye his eggs. He always does. Apparently there is very special Greek Easter egg dye for this. I could not find it. The alternative plan is to boil the skins of 15 (yes 15), Spanish onion skins, add vinegar and water and this will become a red dye. I could not find Spanish onions either. So I used a whole bottle of red food coloring. Unfortunately, I did not think this through. I mixed the food coloring in my favorite 12 cup Tupperware spouted bowl. It is now red. But our eggs are lovely.
Greek Easter Eggs...just one year try it...
Maybe the gospel writers took a break today for this one simple reason...in the middle of the drama of life...in the middle of all the tension of daily living...in the middle of conflict ridden relationships...in the middle of what looks to be a mess..when you are so ready for Spring to arrive and it has been dark for so long...when you are looking for hope at the bottom of a dark hole.. when you can not see past the Fridays of life...when you know Thursday is coming...and you can not avoid it...in the middle of the stress ...in the middle of it all...make space for the growing of your soul...and spend time becoming who you really are...and always welcome the needy, the sick, the poor...because there will always be enough and baskets will be left over...
And you just have to count daily graces: Easter eggs, dirt under fingernails, McCormick red food coloring, afternoon movies with teenagers, fried frog legs that you do not have to eat, lightning fireworks, hard spring rain, pulling weeds, two strong legs, the smell of pot roast at the end of a long work day, Sangria, luscious red strawberries, flaming Azaleas blooming two weeks early and the yard looks like Augusta National, returning verbena, lavender blossoms,dust bunnies, looking at courage in some one's eyes, hearing the unfurling of an other's dreams, hugs,tears...
Remember that Grace always leads...
Kathleen
The first year I bought 2 dozen. I held Davis' hand (he was 6 months old) and dropped them in the cups. I know, by now, everyone is thinking I am one very neurotic mother when it comes to creating childhood memories for my child. At 6 months, I am forcing him to dye eggs. Forcing. I learned today that most sane people, and I never claimed to be, think 6 months old is a wee bit early to dye Easter eggs. It is not like the dye is toxic. But probably sane mothers don't do this because babies have not unclenched their fists yet. But not me. Since I was not going to have a palm branch experience or Kodak moment, by golly we were going to dye eggs. The next year he was 18 months old and we dyed 9 dozen. Yep. 9 dozen. I have a very special egg holder that gently slides the egg into the cups of dye. And much to my very grateful surprise, he loves to dye eggs too. Still. We dyed eggs in every color and no matter how you hard you try...dipping the egg in all the colors still makes brown. I am not sure my heart would have recovered if he had hated decorating Easter eggs. That would have probably been therapy worthy. The palm branch disaster was about all the momma disappointment over Easter I could take.
Discovering Pinterest this year has opened my world to the many, many ways to decorate Easter eggs. My egg decorating is pretty simple. I have tried "blowing" the egg out, but have only succeeded in breaking the eggs and causing a horrific migraine. I have used waxed to make designs. One year I made polka dot eggs. One year they were all monogrammed. I included the cat, the fish, every Tele Tubbie, and every friend Thomas the Tank had. Davis did have 108 eggs to dye. I have a friend at work whose daughter decorated the most amazing eggs this week. The technique was called zenderling. (I think.) They were stunning. Look it up on Pinterest. So I was amazed to learn this year of Greek Easter eggs. In the Orthodox tradition the eggs are dyed blood red. And I had to try it. THIS YEAR.
The English word for "Easter" comes for the word "Eostre". An Anglo-Saxon legend tells how the Saxon goddess Eostre found a wounded bird and transformed it into a hare, so that it could survive the Winter. The hare found it could lay eggs, so it decorated these each Spring and left them as offering to the goddess.
Rituals related to the goddess Eostre focus on new beginnings, symbolized by the Easter egg, and fertility, which is symbolized by the hare (or Easter bunny). Who knew? Originally bird eggs were dyed and somewhere it changed to chicken eggs. Which makes me think of last night.
I had dinner with my mother in law, and we ate at one of those all you can eat buffets with a Japanese theme, if you can imagine, which by the way, until last night I could not. I hate buffets. Besides the obvious health risks, the food sucks. This little adventure last night caused nightmares. I now have developed buffet PTSD. The first buffet station had octopus and I could actually see the suction cups. It had squid and I think that last tray was eel. I skipped all of that and went straight to the salad bar and bread. My mother in law sits down and says, "Look, I found fried frog legs. Try one, Kathleen, they taste just like chicken." You would have to know my mother in law to appreciate the next 10 minutes. She is one of those southern ladies who wants to try everything on your plate and insists that you taste everything on hers. Insists. Once, Davis called me on his cell phone lamenting that Grammy had force fed him hush puppies. Grammy kept telling me how delicious they were and they were the best ever. This concerned me greatly because apparently she had eaten enough frog in her life to declare these the best ever. This also implies that there is a worst ever fried frog leg. After swallowing a hurl, I began to wonder, where do you buy restaurant grade frog? And what cookbook do you find that recipe? And they do so closely resemble chicken legs, that never, never, never again will I order chicken out. And I am seriously rethinking the whole vegan thing. Ok, now my narrative has seriously wandered off track...back to Greek Easter Eggs.
During Lent, eggs are forbidden. Who knew? I certainly did not. In the Greek tradition the eggs are dyed blood red to symbolize the blood of Christ and each family member only gets 1 egg, which they break open and eat one Easter Sunday to symbolize the resurrection. Actually the tradition is more complicated than this, but you get the point. So, in theory, I only had to boil three eggs, four if you include my cat. Davis and I decided to do 3 dozen. Vance kindly lets us dye his eggs. He always does. Apparently there is very special Greek Easter egg dye for this. I could not find it. The alternative plan is to boil the skins of 15 (yes 15), Spanish onion skins, add vinegar and water and this will become a red dye. I could not find Spanish onions either. So I used a whole bottle of red food coloring. Unfortunately, I did not think this through. I mixed the food coloring in my favorite 12 cup Tupperware spouted bowl. It is now red. But our eggs are lovely.
Greek Easter Eggs...just one year try it...
Maybe the gospel writers took a break today for this one simple reason...in the middle of the drama of life...in the middle of all the tension of daily living...in the middle of conflict ridden relationships...in the middle of what looks to be a mess..when you are so ready for Spring to arrive and it has been dark for so long...when you are looking for hope at the bottom of a dark hole.. when you can not see past the Fridays of life...when you know Thursday is coming...and you can not avoid it...in the middle of the stress ...in the middle of it all...make space for the growing of your soul...and spend time becoming who you really are...and always welcome the needy, the sick, the poor...because there will always be enough and baskets will be left over...
And you just have to count daily graces: Easter eggs, dirt under fingernails, McCormick red food coloring, afternoon movies with teenagers, fried frog legs that you do not have to eat, lightning fireworks, hard spring rain, pulling weeds, two strong legs, the smell of pot roast at the end of a long work day, Sangria, luscious red strawberries, flaming Azaleas blooming two weeks early and the yard looks like Augusta National, returning verbena, lavender blossoms,dust bunnies, looking at courage in some one's eyes, hearing the unfurling of an other's dreams, hugs,tears...
Remember that Grace always leads...
Kathleen
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
What I am WIlling to Do for Chocolate
To be very honest, I don't know if I go to get the eggs or just to see what obstacle will face me at the front door. The eggs are to die for and I usually starting thinking about them the first of February. And about the second week, I start planning my strategy on how to obtain these southern culinary delights. If you have ever lived in Kernersville or have known anyone that has, you know exactly what I am talking about. Once you have had one, you never forget.
It is a small church in the middle of Kernersville. I do not know anyone personally who attends there and come to think of it, that is very weird. I probably know at least one person who attends every church Kernersville, either because I personally know you, my husband knows you or I have taken care of you or a family member or my daddy or mother in law knows you. Kernersville is just that kind of town.
I have never gotten past the fellowship hall. NEVER. I think they have a sanctuary but I am really not sure. And I am starting to think they might sacrifice chickens or something in there or at least handle snakes. The fellowship hall is your typical small church fellowship hall with a small church kitchen. If you are from the South, you know what I am talking about. And personally, my interactions make me think that perhaps the preacher should do just a little more preaching on that whole fellowship concept. Just saying.
It all begins Ash Wednesday. The eggs. Last year they made 80,000. I was told this year it would be closer to 87,000. These confections are about the size of your fist. Two flavors: peanut butter or coconut. Hand rolled. Hand dipped. Hand wrapped. These eggs are so famous, they were featured on the cover of North Carolina State magazine last Easter.
Easter is big in North Carolina, particularly Forsyth county. The Moravians claim they celebrate it the best and the sunrise service at God's Acre can not be beat. But nobody can beat these eggs. Nobody. I am told the recipe is a tightly guarded secret. They can't tell you the recipe 'cuz then they would have to shoot you. And shoot you they would, on the spot, without blinking an eye. Even my mother in law doesn't know the recipe and she knows every single secret worth sharing in Kernersville. That woman amazes me. I love these eggs so much, I have seriously considered hiring my own Black Ops team to storm the building and steal the recipe for me. To be perfectlyy honest though, I am not sure a Black Ops team would make in and out of the building without suffering mass causalities. I know on a couple of occasions I didn't know if I was coming out alive.
Getting to those eggs is something of Herculean feat. And now that I think of it, Lent is the season of pain and suffering, and spiritual journeying, so maybe there is a metaphor here. In my lifetime, I am guessing I purchased at least 250 dozen. At least
As soon as you hit the church parking lot you can smell the chocolate. There is this lovely large wooden painted Easter Egg sign on the front lawn of the church that reads: Eggs are Here!. Now that I think about it, that egg sign is bigger than the cross out front. Just saying.
When they first starting making these eggs you could just drop by and buy them. These really nice people put them in nice white bags and smiled at you. Things have changed. Boy have they changed.
So about 10 years ago, I had made about three trips to buy eggs. It was Maundy Thrus and I needed a few more. The Egg sign was still out. I pulled into the church parking lot and walked in. I could see about 50 boxes of eggs. I asked if I could buy a dozen. The keeper of the eggs said that they stopped selling eggs on Palm Sunday. Oh. I apologized and stared past her at those eggs. She reluctantly gave in and sold me a dozen but chastised me for being late. She asked me if I realized it was Holy Week? Yep. She did. I am not sure of the liturgical significance of these chocolate covered eggs but apparently God does not want you to eat them during Holy Week.
So about 5 ears ago, I dropped by and asked to buy some eggs. Now mind you, when you walk in, there are table after table of eggs in various preparation stages. Thousands of eggs. And the egg makers are hard at work making more. They make eggs from 9 to 12 every day and wrap eggs from 1 to 4 every day except weekends.
So I walk in and ask to buy 16 dozen eggs. The egg lady said, "did you call your order in?" I said, "No." She said, "Well if you want more than a dozen you have to call your order in." I said, "Can I give it to you now and I will come back?" She said in a not very friendly voice, "No, I will sell you some today, just remember the rule for next year." OK.
So next year, I call ahead and order about 14 dozen. Left my order with the not so very nice phone person. I show up that afternoon only to learn that if you call an order in...it won't be ready till the next day...but since I was there..they would make an exception. But I was instructed very firmly, and not so nicely by the egg policewoman at the front door, not to drop in at the church fellowship hall without an appointment. I muttered under my breath, well can I come to pray? Who heard of having to have permission to go to a church?
So the next year, I call ahead and confirm my pick up day with the instructions that if I did not show up within 24 hours of ordering, my eggs would be returned to the general egg population. And being so addicted to these eggs, you better believe I was there on time and I thought, this year, this year I will not be called out for some mysterious egg infraction. And you are so not going to believe this. I walk in, ask the egg Nazi for my order and she inquires, "did you fill out the on line form, because you are suppose to fill out the on line form for all large orders." I told her I just called ahead to the church office and they did not inform of the web based ordering system. She begrudgingly gave me eggs. Rolled her eyes at me. By the way, my egg order was sitting there with my name on it, ready for pick up.
So the following the year, I thought I am up to the test. I am going to cover every base. I called ahead. I arranged my pickup time. I place the online order. I arrive at 1202pm. The egg controller is about to lock the door. Well, actually she locked the door as I was getting out of my car waving at her ( I was actually smiling and waving) and yes she was looking me dead in the eye. She opens the door. She informs me that egg pick up time is from 9 am to 12 noon and they break for lunch (in the fellowship hall with all the eggs) from 12 pm to 1 pm and then they re open for business. Oh. I told her I was not aware of the pick up times and I would just come back in an hour. I need to mention here that pick up times were not mentioned on the web based order system, not on the larger than a small pasture ornament egg sign sitting right next to the cross on the church front lawn, and the sign on the fellowship hall door that listed operating hours was about 8 by 10 inches with 10 point font. Seriously. I needed my reading glasses just to read it. Gave a whole new meaning to fine print. She saw my hospice name tag and told me she would go ahead and give me my eggs but to remember next time. And yes my eggs were in a bag with my name on them and I brought the correct cash.
So the next year, I am determined to get this right. Determined. It is now become not so much about those eggs, but the fight to get them. I have turned this into some type of Lenten act of suffering. Suffering over obtaining very large quantities of chocolate and peanut butter and coconut. Yep. I am determined to make these people be nice to me. Need I mention not one has invited me to church yet? Not that I would go, but I just find it odd. I am a large volume, frequent, loyal customer. So I call my egg order in, fill out the web based form, commit to a pick up time, literally drive by the night before pre arranged pick up to double check the fine print on the door.
I go in. All dressed up in my adult clothes. I have my pearls on. My very nice Italian loafers. My best white blouse and my favorite pink sweater. My best spring lipstick. I request my pre-approved, prepaid, prearranged pick up order AND you are SO not going to believe this...She asked if I need bags for my 20 dozen eggs and did I want them separated?. Because if I wanted them separated and put in bags, she was going to have to count. I stood there wondering didn't they have to be counted anyway? I told her I guess I could carry them out in my arms, but it would take a few trips. Reluctantly she throw them in a box. And this time I couldn't resist. I smiled my biggest southern smile and said "BLESS YOUR HEART." Now any self respecting southerner knows that we only result to that phrase when we really want to say, "Are you @##$ing kidding me?"
So this year I was ready. I was ready, but I was going to challenge the system just a bit. I stopped by. Yep. I did a drive by. I wanted an extra 3 dozen I had not prearranged prepaid order. I walk in at 135 pm. I had cash. I had a cross on today. These egg people were sitting at the table wrapping eggs. I am guessing they were surrounded by about 20,000. She asks may I help you? I said I would like to buy some eggs. She asked the standard protocol of questions and when she learned I wanted extra, she turned to her egg buddies and said., "Can we sell her any eggs?" They reluctantly said "I guess so." They filled my order and ask if I want bags. I politely turned them down. Been down that road before. And then I asked, "So how many eggs did you make this year?" The answer 87000. I said 87000. She said yep. And we are already starting a waiting list. So you can't have anymore because we stopped taking orders yesterday. I turned my biggest smile on and said, Bless your heart. I guess I am just blessed beyond measure that you graciously gave me 36 of the 87000.
So, I am all done egg hunting this year. I am seriously considering asking the egg lady if prehaps I could volunteer next year for the egg war effort. I thought about offering a course on how to be nice or prehaps these are the most stressed church people I have ever met and need some relaxation techniques. Or perhaps they are distantly related to my bad church date. I do know one thing- those eggs are a slice of heaven if you have to go through hell to get one.
It is a small church in the middle of Kernersville. I do not know anyone personally who attends there and come to think of it, that is very weird. I probably know at least one person who attends every church Kernersville, either because I personally know you, my husband knows you or I have taken care of you or a family member or my daddy or mother in law knows you. Kernersville is just that kind of town.
I have never gotten past the fellowship hall. NEVER. I think they have a sanctuary but I am really not sure. And I am starting to think they might sacrifice chickens or something in there or at least handle snakes. The fellowship hall is your typical small church fellowship hall with a small church kitchen. If you are from the South, you know what I am talking about. And personally, my interactions make me think that perhaps the preacher should do just a little more preaching on that whole fellowship concept. Just saying.
It all begins Ash Wednesday. The eggs. Last year they made 80,000. I was told this year it would be closer to 87,000. These confections are about the size of your fist. Two flavors: peanut butter or coconut. Hand rolled. Hand dipped. Hand wrapped. These eggs are so famous, they were featured on the cover of North Carolina State magazine last Easter.
Easter is big in North Carolina, particularly Forsyth county. The Moravians claim they celebrate it the best and the sunrise service at God's Acre can not be beat. But nobody can beat these eggs. Nobody. I am told the recipe is a tightly guarded secret. They can't tell you the recipe 'cuz then they would have to shoot you. And shoot you they would, on the spot, without blinking an eye. Even my mother in law doesn't know the recipe and she knows every single secret worth sharing in Kernersville. That woman amazes me. I love these eggs so much, I have seriously considered hiring my own Black Ops team to storm the building and steal the recipe for me. To be perfectlyy honest though, I am not sure a Black Ops team would make in and out of the building without suffering mass causalities. I know on a couple of occasions I didn't know if I was coming out alive.
Getting to those eggs is something of Herculean feat. And now that I think of it, Lent is the season of pain and suffering, and spiritual journeying, so maybe there is a metaphor here. In my lifetime, I am guessing I purchased at least 250 dozen. At least
As soon as you hit the church parking lot you can smell the chocolate. There is this lovely large wooden painted Easter Egg sign on the front lawn of the church that reads: Eggs are Here!. Now that I think about it, that egg sign is bigger than the cross out front. Just saying.
When they first starting making these eggs you could just drop by and buy them. These really nice people put them in nice white bags and smiled at you. Things have changed. Boy have they changed.
So about 10 years ago, I had made about three trips to buy eggs. It was Maundy Thrus and I needed a few more. The Egg sign was still out. I pulled into the church parking lot and walked in. I could see about 50 boxes of eggs. I asked if I could buy a dozen. The keeper of the eggs said that they stopped selling eggs on Palm Sunday. Oh. I apologized and stared past her at those eggs. She reluctantly gave in and sold me a dozen but chastised me for being late. She asked me if I realized it was Holy Week? Yep. She did. I am not sure of the liturgical significance of these chocolate covered eggs but apparently God does not want you to eat them during Holy Week.
So about 5 ears ago, I dropped by and asked to buy some eggs. Now mind you, when you walk in, there are table after table of eggs in various preparation stages. Thousands of eggs. And the egg makers are hard at work making more. They make eggs from 9 to 12 every day and wrap eggs from 1 to 4 every day except weekends.
So I walk in and ask to buy 16 dozen eggs. The egg lady said, "did you call your order in?" I said, "No." She said, "Well if you want more than a dozen you have to call your order in." I said, "Can I give it to you now and I will come back?" She said in a not very friendly voice, "No, I will sell you some today, just remember the rule for next year." OK.
So next year, I call ahead and order about 14 dozen. Left my order with the not so very nice phone person. I show up that afternoon only to learn that if you call an order in...it won't be ready till the next day...but since I was there..they would make an exception. But I was instructed very firmly, and not so nicely by the egg policewoman at the front door, not to drop in at the church fellowship hall without an appointment. I muttered under my breath, well can I come to pray? Who heard of having to have permission to go to a church?
So the next year, I call ahead and confirm my pick up day with the instructions that if I did not show up within 24 hours of ordering, my eggs would be returned to the general egg population. And being so addicted to these eggs, you better believe I was there on time and I thought, this year, this year I will not be called out for some mysterious egg infraction. And you are so not going to believe this. I walk in, ask the egg Nazi for my order and she inquires, "did you fill out the on line form, because you are suppose to fill out the on line form for all large orders." I told her I just called ahead to the church office and they did not inform of the web based ordering system. She begrudgingly gave me eggs. Rolled her eyes at me. By the way, my egg order was sitting there with my name on it, ready for pick up.
So the following the year, I thought I am up to the test. I am going to cover every base. I called ahead. I arranged my pickup time. I place the online order. I arrive at 1202pm. The egg controller is about to lock the door. Well, actually she locked the door as I was getting out of my car waving at her ( I was actually smiling and waving) and yes she was looking me dead in the eye. She opens the door. She informs me that egg pick up time is from 9 am to 12 noon and they break for lunch (in the fellowship hall with all the eggs) from 12 pm to 1 pm and then they re open for business. Oh. I told her I was not aware of the pick up times and I would just come back in an hour. I need to mention here that pick up times were not mentioned on the web based order system, not on the larger than a small pasture ornament egg sign sitting right next to the cross on the church front lawn, and the sign on the fellowship hall door that listed operating hours was about 8 by 10 inches with 10 point font. Seriously. I needed my reading glasses just to read it. Gave a whole new meaning to fine print. She saw my hospice name tag and told me she would go ahead and give me my eggs but to remember next time. And yes my eggs were in a bag with my name on them and I brought the correct cash.
So the next year, I am determined to get this right. Determined. It is now become not so much about those eggs, but the fight to get them. I have turned this into some type of Lenten act of suffering. Suffering over obtaining very large quantities of chocolate and peanut butter and coconut. Yep. I am determined to make these people be nice to me. Need I mention not one has invited me to church yet? Not that I would go, but I just find it odd. I am a large volume, frequent, loyal customer. So I call my egg order in, fill out the web based form, commit to a pick up time, literally drive by the night before pre arranged pick up to double check the fine print on the door.
I go in. All dressed up in my adult clothes. I have my pearls on. My very nice Italian loafers. My best white blouse and my favorite pink sweater. My best spring lipstick. I request my pre-approved, prepaid, prearranged pick up order AND you are SO not going to believe this...She asked if I need bags for my 20 dozen eggs and did I want them separated?. Because if I wanted them separated and put in bags, she was going to have to count. I stood there wondering didn't they have to be counted anyway? I told her I guess I could carry them out in my arms, but it would take a few trips. Reluctantly she throw them in a box. And this time I couldn't resist. I smiled my biggest southern smile and said "BLESS YOUR HEART." Now any self respecting southerner knows that we only result to that phrase when we really want to say, "Are you @##$ing kidding me?"
So this year I was ready. I was ready, but I was going to challenge the system just a bit. I stopped by. Yep. I did a drive by. I wanted an extra 3 dozen I had not prearranged prepaid order. I walk in at 135 pm. I had cash. I had a cross on today. These egg people were sitting at the table wrapping eggs. I am guessing they were surrounded by about 20,000. She asks may I help you? I said I would like to buy some eggs. She asked the standard protocol of questions and when she learned I wanted extra, she turned to her egg buddies and said., "Can we sell her any eggs?" They reluctantly said "I guess so." They filled my order and ask if I want bags. I politely turned them down. Been down that road before. And then I asked, "So how many eggs did you make this year?" The answer 87000. I said 87000. She said yep. And we are already starting a waiting list. So you can't have anymore because we stopped taking orders yesterday. I turned my biggest smile on and said, Bless your heart. I guess I am just blessed beyond measure that you graciously gave me 36 of the 87000.
So, I am all done egg hunting this year. I am seriously considering asking the egg lady if prehaps I could volunteer next year for the egg war effort. I thought about offering a course on how to be nice or prehaps these are the most stressed church people I have ever met and need some relaxation techniques. Or perhaps they are distantly related to my bad church date. I do know one thing- those eggs are a slice of heaven if you have to go through hell to get one.
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