I grumble as I stuff the pastel plastic with gummy bears, sour worms and jelly beans. No Dove chocolate this time around!
This is ridiculous! They are far too old for egg hunt. They’ve outgrown it. Tell me, which teenager’s parent is doing THIS – I point at the pile of plastic eggs and opened bags of candy, my mouth filled with sour worms – on the night when we should be thinking of Jesus and all He’s done for us???
This is not the first – or the last - time I find my parenting colliding with my spirituality.
My husband looks at me over the newspaper. Then returns to his reading.
You know, you have to make it extra hard for them to find the eggs this year, I frown.
The man of the house is the designated egg hider.
No more easy raking of all that teeth-rotting candy, I continue. In fact, no egg should be visible. None at all. If they want the hunt, they’ll get THE HUNT. Make them WORK for the eggs.
Sunday morning, desperate for the resurrection, we greet each other with,
He is risen!
He is risen indeed, even as I wait for the second cup of java to kick in and make effectual the ‘rising from the dead’ inside my foggy brain.
The egg hunt commences without pomp. They already know what they are supposed to do.
Within minutes our house is turned upside-down in search for the hidden eggs. They climb on top of counters, chairs and tables. Every couch and cushion moved. Every cabinet door and every drawer opened. Stove and dishwasher. Toaster oven and microwave and…
We didn’t hide any in the freezer! I shout.
They dig the eggs out of some rather difficult, creative spots. Others, which seem pretty obvious to me, they overlook again and again.
This is HARD! They moan.
This is FUN! I gloat. Are you ready to give up yet?
The search continues on with only few more eggs left to be ferreted out.
But I don't know yet that the biggest surprise has been reserved for ... me!