The Good Egg

Scrambled eggs, fried eggs, deviled eggs…I could go on and on, but I am afraid that it would quickly become a schtick reserved for the shrimp of Forrest Gump. In every fashion imaginable, my family has eaten eggs. Except for me, I have an extreme prejudice toward eggs.

Regardless of how they usually take up space between the waffle and the breakfast sausage link, my kids love eggs. It’s funny how they adore some sunny-side-up mornings, yet they still “ooh and ahh” over a found nest in one of our trees. There was an unfortunate nest built on the back of the basketball goal by a bird that is probably the same one who flew into my closed kitchen window a few times.

As soon as we spy tiny little eggs in the nest, the children have to watch it and ask me a million times a day if they have hatched yet. They anxiously await the tiny chirps and outstretched necks of the chicks, even though it more closely resembles the makings of a Sunday breakfast. No matter how many times I have purchased a commercialized package of edible eggs, they know of the baby inside if it’s in a nest. Although the smooth shape doesn’t yet resemble a bird, they know that this is the beginning of life.

When in the process of becoming an adult do we forget this?

How did we get to a point that we take those early moments in a human pregnancy and get lost in the shape of it and forget that it is the beginning of life?

Just because the bird knocked for a loop by the window too many times built her nest behind the basketball goal, did she seek a medical procedure to rid her of the inconvenience of trying to raise a brood in such a heavy traffic location? Surely having to dodge a swishing slam dunk would qualify her freshly laid eggs as a bother and not worth the effort. After all, they are just eggs and visually nothing like the developed feathered friends she gossips with along the telephone line above my car.

One of the birds got a little thirsty and hung out at the bird bath a little too long. Perhaps she ruffled her feathers a little too often, but she got chosen to stop the life of free chirping and settle down on top of a nest. She noticed at the last moment that the nest she had spent preparing was a little snug for the 5 eggs. She had only planned for 4. Maybe she should have taken her delicate little claw and flipped one out of the nest so that it would have been more in line with her plan for her life?

Regardless of the bother, the hassle or the being tied to a bunch of perpetually hungry and scrawny Cheepers, the momma accepts her duty and settles her feathered bottom down on the eggs. Even though it looks nothing like the bird it will one day become, she knows it is the beginning of life. My children peeking over the carefully arranged twigs know that it is the beginning of waiting for the hatching of the eggs.

fetus 12 weeks

We see it a lot in our neck of the woods. Deer grazing with their fawns, horses with their colts kicking up the pasture and we skipped church one Sunday to watch a cow give birth to the wobbliest calf you have ever seen. This acceptance of young being born is so normal to these animals around us and my kids know all about the fertilized egg vs. the unfertilized egg. The fertilized egg is the beginning of life and the shifting of cells to move on their own accord is the decisive action of the beginning of being born to life.

How will I explain to them one day that humans in all their education will make a decision based on their own comfort level that cells mean nothing and a beating heart is just flinching tissue?

Although very early is resembles nothing like the people we gossip with around a cup of coffee, it’s the beginning of a life and if he/she are lucky they will like coffee too.

How did some of us forget?

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