Taking a Look Inside

This lovely egg was made by me and my first son Calvin years ago. You can see that I suppressed the urge to take over and make it perfect. I remember how much I wanted to show Calvin how to make the frosting pretty, but then as I watched him grinning as he swirled the green icing all over the top in great swoops of the butter knife, I thought better of it. Inside, Calvin placed a picture of Jesus, a few yellow jelly beans and some coconut we dyed green for grass.  

When I look at my egg, I remember how determined I had been to make it a Martha Stewart project. I was convinced that I could make it so perfect in every way that Martha herself would want to feature it in her magazine. But I couldn't figure out how to squish out the frosting in pretty flower shapes, the bottom of the egg was uneven and wouldn't sit straight on counter, and my Jesus picture turned out too wide and I had to trim it to a lopsided oval that certainly would not have passed muster with Martha. So I resorted to blobbing frosting all over the top of the egg and sticking jelly beans on top. And that turned out all right, considering I threw five jelly beans into my mouth for every one that I stuck to the egg. 

I keep these eggs wrapped in tissue paper in a shoe box under the house, and every year around Easter I drag them out to display in our front room. I put them there so that I will see them numerous times a day. But this year I thought of throwing them away. With no little hands to pick them up to peer inside, they look suspiciously like clutter. My oldest does not remember making them, and the only one who has shown genuine interest in them is the cat, who was caught licking the frosting from one. But the funny thing is, I care. Mine are the hands to pick them up every day to look inside. And every time, Jesus is there, his arm around a child, pointing to a butterfly. And every time, he makes me smile and feel a little more hopeful, a little less frustrated, a tiny bit less crazy than I had been the moment before. It's almost as if that's me he's putting his arm around in there. 

When I look into the eggs, I wonder how many times God has wanted to reach down and take over for me. There have been many times when I've messed up his plans. "You're doing it wrong," he might have said when he saw me saying the same thing to my child when he slopped frosting all over an egg made of sugar. But God didn't say a word. He let me figure it out for myself. Or rather, he let my son tell me instead. It took me awhile, but I finally got it, and me and God are still on good terms. That's the thing about God and Jesus. They don't care if your eggs look great or even if you've got them all in a basket. They like you anyway. They even love you. And they don't hold a grudge. (Unlike me and a lot of other people in the world.)

So I will keep the eggs a little longer. Or maybe a lot longer. Because they remind me that the handiwork of children is beautiful in its imperfection. And they remind me that I am loved in my imperfection, too. And most of all they remind me of the time I kicked Martha out of the house and opened the door to Jesus.

Here's a link to a site that has great directions on how to make these sugar eggs. 

Comments

[Alicia Fish]

I love how you think about things and express yourself. You are eloquent and funny and real. I love it. And I love this post.

[MaryB]

You've expressed your thoughts so beautifully! I love this! Happy Easter!

[Julie B.]

Lovely post Susan. I still have the eggs my kids made tucked away in my Easter box. They aren't in great shape, but I keep them. Every year I look at them, sigh, and put them back in the box. I love them- the eggs and the kids that made them.