Picking up Prayers

I brought my daughter to her first Easter Egg Hunt today. Not just any hunt, though. Easter at my grandparents house has always been a big deal. Every year, rain or shine, sleet or snow, Grandpa hides eggs for everyone in the family. I vaguely recall one year when the eggs were hidden inside, but no one ever seems to remember that one. It messes with our reputation.

Everyone gets an egg with their name on it. No one can leave till everyone has found their egg. And you can't tell if you found someone else's egg. One year all the grown uncles took a turn climbing a tree to see if the egg at the top was theirs. Naturally, Uncle Kenny went last and the egg belonged to him.

This year I was one of the last to find mine. Maybe I was last, actually. I made pouty faces at Grandpa to get some sympathy or some clues. He said to me, "I remember where I hid yours, actually." There are a lot of us. And he remembered where mine was. I could suddenly picture him hiding my egg. Holding that pastel pink, plastic egg in his leathery aged hands. I know he was thinking special thoughts of me as he hid it under a clump of grass by that old tire in the side yard. Maybe he was remembering the first time he hid that pastel pink egg with the name Charity on it, even as he hid another pastel pink egg this year with the name Nola, my daughter.

After so many years of enjoying the fun of finding my egg, getting candy, and occasionally hating the cold he was forcing us to endure... I realized how much more this must be to Grandpa. I'm sure Grandma helps stuff them with goodies, but Grandpa hides them himself. And everyone of us passes through his mind while he takes our egg from his basket to it's hiding spot. Grandpa isn't one for fancy words or deep spiritual discussions. His life well lived is his testimony for Christ. But you should never underestimate the silent type....

Silly me, we weren't just picking up eggs. We were picking up prayers.