We tossed and turned, trying to capture again the thread of our wayward dreams, in the hope that it would drop us again into slumber. Their voices echoed through the upstairs hallway, having originated on the main floor and then magnified by the laundry room, like a satellite getting a gravitational assist from Jupiter. We closed our eyes ever tighter, praying they would just fall asleep, like a horde of tiny robots being powered down.
They could not contain their excitement. As we emerged from the warm, feathery nest of our bedroom and descended to the main floor, our eyes focused on the two stockings, the remnants of Christmas decorations we’d yet to take down. I smiled, thinking that we awoke in much the same way just a few months ago. Instead of the kids screeching and dancing around the tree, each counting when they found their name on a glittering tag, they stood with their faces plastered to glass panes of the French doors overlooking the back yard. Their eyes darted from tree to fence to bush to bird feeder, as they remarked the vivid pastel colors of the eggs in the backyard. They pressured us and pleaded for permission to rush outside with their baskets, hoping to find the revered golden egg, that legendary family tradition that robbed us with every chance it could get.
As my wife collected the ingredients required to run the coffee machine, I sat in my chair and marveled at the kids, all six of them, faces still glued to the glass. The day was bright and warm, at least inside the house. I closed my eyes for a moment when the scent of percolating arabica danced with my nostrils. I loved that the two mornings were almost exactly the same. On the one, gifts were given signifying Jesus, the greatest gift the world has ever known. On the other, eggs draw the excitement of the kids, signifying the possibility of new life with Christ. Not all eggs hatch, and not all eggs are found. But every egg has the same opportunity.
A slippered nudge from my wife forces my eyes open, elated at the sight of a steaming cup of coffee. As I take a sip, I peer over the edge of the ceramic vessel and see the arrows from my quiver, now focused on me and not the yard.
“Well,” I think, as I look around for my loafers, “let’s get this party started.”