At six pm, I thought all was lost.
Not a single little chocolate egg for hiding to be found, and a life-long tradition broken.
I seriously considered cancelling Easter, but duty won out.
The stone was rolled away, and Christ raised.
It was by far the best Easter Vigil I’ve had since being ordained, and the thing that threatened to de-rail it (a bit of conflict at communion between a child’s hands saying ‘yes’ and a mother’s hands saying ‘no’) redeemed itself after the service as the girl, the ex-primary teacher and I all splashed our hands in the font telling stories.
I’ll miss the egg hunts ‘tomorrow’ morning, and the delight of seeing octogenarians rush round the church like little children. But still there will be new life.
Next year, though, I’m getting my eggs the day after Christmas. They had mini-eggs then. I remember it distinctly: no milk, no bread, but mini-eggs.
Ooh, and I bet the pulpit in Dunblane has lots of good hidey-holes for chocolate eggs. Not to mention to walled garden…