Heart to Heart

The year was 1986. Heather was twelve; Lauren, eight.

Lauren could hardly wait. We gathered supplies. Newspapers. Paper towels. Spoons. Jars. A pitcher of water. Vinegar. Dye tablets – nine colors. Hard-cooked eggs. Camera.

We looked forward to the ritual year after year. Some of it was the same. I liked single-color eggs in bright, cool colors. Heather dependably dyed some two-tone eggs. A few eggs cracked in the pan, smashed in a too tightly clenched first, or tumbled like Humpty Dumpty from a spoon. Dye was invariably knocked and spilled. Some of it changed. That year, Lauren wrote Mom, Dad, Heather or Lauren, while Heather lettered David on eggs. Lauren left eggs in the dye longer each year.

On Saturday, we would always leave the colored eggs out for the bunny to hide. On Easter Sunday this year, one egg could not be found. I told the girls the bunny was cleverer each year, because I could remember their first Easters when eggs were hidden two to three feet apart in the middle of the floor.

We looked high and low, but found no egg. Two weeks later, Heather called me at work to give me a message: “We found the last egg!” Another Easter was over. Maybe not. Maybe Easter is over when the last colored egg is gone from the refrigerator. Maybe not. When eggs are dipped into new and colored life, they’re never the same again. And neither are we, who’ve been immersed/poured/sprinkled into new life. Maybe Easter is never really over!  Pastor Lynn Westover

P.S. The egg was hiding with the pendulum inside the grandmother clock.