Last night, I was feeling a little nostalgic.
I was missing the family traditions that I grew up with. Mostly, the night-before-easter Egg contest!
My Mom, my sisters and I would all get together in the kitchen to color hard boiled eggs. My dearest Mother sacrificed and prepared all of the dyes with vinegar, in little mugs, even though the smell of it made her want to gag. Then, the competition began. We went all out. I'm talking 3 colors per egg, or hand-painted flowers, or white crayons first to make a stenciled effect. None of this shrink-wrap nonsense. We kicked it oldschool. It was art.
Of course there was some bickering over who was hogging whatever color of dye and to get their egg out, "but it isnt dark enough yet!". There was also some stealthy hiding of the technique, so that no one else would see what you were planning to do with your egg. We each decorated a handful, in case one showed up with a crack or got dyed completely brown from a poorly chosen color mixture. But in general, we always had a great time just being together and talking, crowded around the kitchen island, and the delicateness and mess of it all. Those little wire octagons and the 'plop' of a pure white egg when it first hits a pool of bright color. I miss it.
But where was Dad, you say? He was missing out on all of the family fun!..... Hiding. In the next room. He was not allowed to see the artists and their art before the final product was complete!
When all of the eggs had been thoroughly colored and/or Mom said time was up (after all, we couldn't stay up all night doing this, the 'easter bunny' had to get up at the crack of dawn...), they would all be placed randomly in a big egg carton and taken to the table. That was when 'The Judge' would arrive, in all his majesty. My wonderful Dad, always the diplomat, was perfect for the role. We would sit with hands over our mouths to keep from squealing, bated breath, toes wiggling inches from the floor, darting eyes. We weren't allowed to make a peep while Dad was judging. This way he had no 'daughter bias'. He could not know who colored which eggs, thereby making him a fair observant. He would handle each egg very daintily with his strong, rough fingers. He would make a comment or two about each one. Always positive. Even the ugliest of eggs could get a "wow, this one has some very unique colors!" from Dad.
Then he would sort them, the ones he liked best would get into the 'Top 10'. The others were politely set aside (with some inadvertent grunting from the artist(s)). He would mull over them again, individually, commenting on the artistry and the color choices and he would narrow it down to the 'Top 5', then the 'Top 3' and finally, the Prize egg of the year. He was tricky, our Dad. Some years he chose the most intricate one, with drawings all over it, and some years he'd pick one dyed a solid hue, saying that it was perfectly even-toned in his favorite shade of blue.
After all the eggs had been separated, he would get out his lead pencil (he's an engineer, famous for having writing utensils always in a breast pocket), and gently write on the tip of each egg... maybe '.10', ten cents for the eggs that made the Top 10. Then '.15' fifteen cents for the ones in the Top 5, and up until the runners-up and the Prized egg usually won about a quarter. Man were we excited. (As we got older, the prize-money went up, to account for inflation, of course. But not by much. I can't think of a year the #1 egg went for more than a dollar.)
But here was the catch. Even if you created the prize egg, you didn't get the money! After we all burst from the seams and blabbed to Dad about whose egg was which and whined a little and finally consented that the Prize egg really was the prettiest and most perfect, Mom would whisk them all away, telling us that the Easter Bunny would know where to find them.
In the middle of the night, he (the E.B.) would hide them in the yard and/or around the house. Then, we would dash around with our baskets, carefully picking up eggs and shouting out how much money was written on the tip. There was a significant ruckus whenever someone found the #1 egg. After we had found all of them (Mom always took count so there wouldn't be an old egg found weeks later stinking up behind the TV or something), we would add up the cents in our basket, and Dad would bring out his jar-o-change and pay up. Therefore, someone else could get paid for your artistic work, because they were the one to find it Easter morning. Not in compliance with copyright laws, but more fun and absolutely better in the long run.
The more I reflect on this tradition, the more I see how genius it was. My parents are amazing. I'm glad they humored us by letting us do it each year. I hope to do it with my children one day.
But as I sit here childless, on Easter morn, there are no eggs to find and no basket full of chocolates to munch through (Jonny bought me a beautiful white Easter Lily plant instead!). And I am thankful. The sun is shining and I am reflecting on the true reason for this day. Eggs and chocolate and bunnies are all fun and games, but I'm thinking about Jesus Christ.
I know that He lived and lives again. I know that He atoned for my sins, sorrows, sicknesses and heartaches. I know that He died for me. I know that He set the supreme example of how to live a loving, perfect life. I know that through Him, anything is possible. I know that because of Him, I can overcome spiritual and temporal death. I know that He knows and loves me. And each of us. I am so thankful for Him, my Savior and Redeemer.
This is one of my favorite hymns:
I know that my Redeemer lives.
What comfort this sweet sentence gives!
He lives, he lives, who once was dead.
He lives, my ever-living Head.
He lives to bless me with his love.
He lives to plead for me above.
He lives my hungry soul to feed.
He lives to bless in time of need.
He lives to grant me rich supply.
He lives to guide me with his eye.
He lives to comfort me when faint.
He lives to hear my soul’s complaint.
He lives to silence all my fears.
He lives to wipe away my tears.
He lives to calm my troubled heart.
He lives all blessings to impart.
http://www.free-lyrics.org
He lives, my kind, wise heav’nly Friend.
He lives and loves me to the end.
He lives, and while he lives, I’ll sing.
He lives, my Prophet, Priest, and King.
He lives and grants me daily breath.
He lives, and I shall conquer death.
He lives my mansion to prepare.
He lives to bring me safely there.
He lives! All glory to his name!
He lives, my Savior, still the same.
Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives:
“I know that my Redeemer lives!”
He lives! All glory to his name!
He lives, my Savior, still the same.
Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives:
“I know that my Redeemer lives!”
I hope you can all take time today to think about Jesus Christ, and thank your Heavenly Father for His mercy, grace, love, and for sending His Son...for us.
