My first-born on his first Easter Egg hunt – maybe it was his second. We’d colored eggs, robin’s egg blues, lavenders, new-leaf greens, pinks, and fluffy chick yellows. My husband held his hand as he walked around the yard, the daffodil circle, picking up eggs. I walked behind, pull out, egg after egg, placing back into the daffodil nests for circles and circles of egg hunting. Little red jacket over light blue sailor suit trimmed in white.
At lunch, I peeled robin’s egg blues and pinks for plates – peaceful, perfect until his eyes widened and he cried out,
“Fix it, Mama! Fix it!” – my little guy outloud dismayed at the broken egg out of its shell.
How do you put a broken shell back together over the egg white and yolk leaving it whole?
Returning to the kitchen with his plate, his face expectant that I could do anything, even make a broken eggshell whole again.
Reaching into the egg basket on the counter, I pulled out another robin’s egg blue, put it on his plate, set it before him – the world restored, the egg made whole.
He knows today that I cannot make a broken egg whole anymore. But we both know who can make a soul, heart or person broken whole. I am so glad I have a Father who can – who has made the broken me whole – really whole. Not a trick. Not a slight of hand. Really whole!