Eggs From the Basement

Have you ever wondered about the moment when man first decided that an egg could be food?  Since there is no YouTube video, we will have to use our imaginations instead.  Picture Adam and Eve in Eden, tending to the chickens.  Suddenly an egg comes shooting out from the back-end of a hen, just under its tail. 

Eve:  Whoa! Did you see that?

Adam:  I’m starving. Let’s eat it.

Eve:  I’m not eating that thing.  Did you see where it came from?

Adam:  Well, they don’t hack it up like a hairball. (Taking a bite) Hey, it’s…crunchy.

Eve:  Try taking the shell off. 

Hen:  Try cooking it first. 

Adam & Eve:  Oh!

Next thing you know, they were whipping up hollandaise sauce, and the breakfast buffet was changed forever. 

Our family consumes a large amount of God’s “perfect food” every week.  Last week at the grocery store, I had so many cartons of eggs that the cashier asked if we were dyeing eggs.  It’s November, so I’m guessing she was working a second shift and feeling a little delirious. 

I had just read an article about how to cook the perfect batch of scrambled eggs.  For some reason, I never question the authority of these informative articles.  So here I was taking advice about my eggs from some forty-year old guy named Vern, who probably still lives in his parents’ basement. 

Use a whisk, not a fork.  I had always used a fork with no problem, but Vern scared me into believing I had been a fool for all these years.  I took a huge risk by taking out my whisk, and I suddenly heard Elmer Fudd’s voice: Be vewy, vewy quiet; I’m taking a huge whisk. Snapping back to reality, I remembered the next piece of advice. 

Whisk with force. Vigorously.  Redundancy aside, I decided to give it a whirl.  Before I could begin, I heard the words that strike fear into the heart of a parent:

“Mommy, can I help?”

My son wanted to help me with the eggs.  I imagined my five-year-old splattering raw egg over the countertops, the floor, and my head.  But one look at his cherubic face, and I caved like a Yorkshire pudding. 

He started to stir the eggs with a fork, and he was doing just fine until I intervened.

“No, you have to vigorously whisk them.  Like this.”

I took over with my whisk, and I beat the eggs with so much force that one slimy egg yolk catapulted across the kitchen.  After a search, I finally found the yellow Cyclops eye staring up at me from the floor.  I threw it in the trash and fumed at Vern.

Yet, I followed his next instructions.

Use chopsticks for the perfect curds.  Not only was this unnecessary, but I felt like an idiot doing it. In retrospect, now I see that Vern was messing with people.  He just chose to be more subtle than “Wear underwear on your head and do the Hokey Pokey.” 

I should have just let Luke make the eggs.  He was doing a great job until I took charge. 

I thought about how a five-year-old Jesus would have wanted to help Joseph with the carpentry.  If he were my son standing there with a wooden dowel, I would have scolded, “You’ll poke your eye out with that thing.”  But any man who was entrusted by God to raise the Messiah would be smarter than that.

If only we believed in our children the way God believes in us.

Ephesians 1:4

For he chose us before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight.

Us? (look around) Really? 

God believes we are capable of doing what is good and right.  In an act of unprecedented trust, He made us the representation of His son.  He would never have stuck to this plan if He didn’t believe in the potential of His children.

Romans 8:29

For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his son… 

What if God took the whisk right out of our hands and scrambled the eggs for us?  Sure, they would be the World’s Best Eggs, but what message would that send us? God lets us scramble our own eggs.  That’s why sometimes in life we get stuck with pieces of shell, and other times we get burned.  But either way, He believed. 

As I looked at my son’s face, I realized that I had not believed in him the way that Joseph believed in Jesus.  Or the way God believes in me. 

Next time I will ignore Vern’s advice from the basement, and follow the counsel from above. 

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