Eggs

It is early on a Sunday morning. Around seven o'clock I think. My mother has gotten up already and is downstairs in the kitchen making coffee. She takes out the forty or so eggs she has bought the day before and starts putting them into two big pans. To be boiled. My father is also downstairs. Setting the table for breakfast. Highly unusual since we never eat breakfast at the table on a normal Sunday. 

The eggs are ready. Most of them hard-boiled, some a little less (for my mother). The table is set. The grands and us children are dressed and downstairs. My father starts with a prayer and breakfast starts. A piece of bread with some jam. One egg, no two eggs. Then another two. And another two. I can probably manage about five eggs as do my siblings. My father and grandfather however eat eggs like they are going out of fashion. And before we know it, there is only about four eggs left. But it's time to leave. For church.

Because despite this little pagan influence into our daily lives, church was important. And being late for church was out of the question. So, we walked and cycled or drove to church (depending on the weather and the amount of people), where we would join all the others in hearing about Christ being nailed to the cross as a penance for all of our sins. We would hear about Thomas and Mary Magdalene, about the stone and the linen cloth left behind. 

After church we would go back home. And depending on the weather, the rest of the day would be spent in quietness. Perhaps a walk if the weather was nice, some television if there was anything good on, a game, a book. And that is how I spent Easter in my youth.

This memory was prompted by Spin Cycle. Thank you Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie and Gretchen at Second Blooming.