The Egg Hunt
Easter. What a strange thing we’ve made it.
It’s bunnies and bonnets and brightly colored baskets with their nests of green plastic grass. It’s the smell of vinegar and hard-boiled eggs dipped in dye. It’s hundreds of thousands of plastic egg-shaped shells filled with candy. It’s hoards of children, rampaging over hill and dale, elbowing each other in the face in their eagerness to gather more loot than the next kid.
He is risen. He is risen indeed.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve participated in my fair share of egg hunts.
My earliest egg-hunting memory took place at Pope’s Chapel—the tiny, redbrick country church of my forefathers.
Most high holidays of my childhood were celebrated in this predictable fashion: My parents would load my two brothers and me into our wood-paneled minivan, and traverse the winding back road to Pope’s Chapel.
Through the woods, past the trailer park, and over the railroad tracks, where the road would bend away sharply to the left. And there was the church, nestled in a little hollow, flanked by a large cow pasture/cemetery.
Dad would park the van on the grass along the side of the road, and we’d all pile out in our Sunday best, steeling ourselves for the hellfire sermon of Brother Mullinax.
Easter Sunday, for me, often included a new dress hand-sewn by my grandmother. She was a talented seamstress, so my wardrobe often included cutting edge fashions. I went through a serious bubble suit phase. I think I had two or three of these bad boys. My favorite was patterned with hot air balloons. The 1980s were a wild place, y’all.
Anyway.
This particular Easter morning, after the service, we kids were herded into the church foyer, each of us pushing and jostling for position nearest the double doors.
Finally, someone gave the word. The doors swung wide, and we burst forth upon the church lawn.
I was a fast runner, and my bubble suit allowed maximum maneuverability, so I did all right for myself. But to my great consternation, I couldn’t find the prize egg. The largest of the eggs, the prize egg held a dollar bill inside rather than candy. Oh, the envy and rage I felt when Douglas plunged his hand deep into the shrubbery and pulled that prize egg out.
Douglas.
By this point in the hunt, all the easy pickings had been gathered, and we moved on to those eggs requiring a more creative search strategy.
Behind the church building, I noticed a rusty drainpipe clinging to the side of the brick wall. In a stroke of genius, I dropped to my knees in the grass and snaked my hand into the mouth of the pipe. My fingers closed around a plastic egg.
Whooping in delight, I pulled it out of the pipe.
But something was off about this egg. It didn’t look like its brightly-colored mates in my basket. Its color was faded, and it was coated in dirt.
I cracked it open.
Inside was a piece of foil-wrapped candy. It had the look of that piece of Halloween candy that fell behind the dresser only to be discovered years later.
That’s when it dawned on me. I’d found an egg from last year’s egg hunt. Or possibly the year before that. Douglas could have his stupid prize egg. This was something even more special, more rare.
This, my friends, was the Unfound Egg.
There is a certain mystique, a certain lore, around finding an Unfound Egg. I suspect it’s the same Eureka feeling that propels archeologists to keep digging.
The mystique of hidden easter eggs fuels the plot of Ernest Cline’s dystopian science fiction novel Ready Player One. The main character, Wade, competes in an international egg hunt created by the founder of a giant tech company. The winner gets ownership of the company, so the stakes are high. Hidden throughout the competition are these glorious, 1980’s-themed easter eggs, placed there by the now-deceased founder of the company, James Halliday.
I loved the book. I loved the movie adaptation, too, especially because Halliday’s character is played by my all-time favorite actor, Mark Rylance. You might also recognize him from the screen adaptation for Hilary Mantel’s epic Wolf Hall. ( Another must read AND must see, in my humble opinion.)
The more you look, the more films you’ll find him in. He’s just there, quietly, steadily doing his excellent work. Well done, Mark. Keep it up, sir.
But Easter eggs.
I’m fairly convinced it gives God a real kick to hide easter eggs in our pasts. What’s in these easter eggs, you ask? Provisional graces particular to your specific, unique need. Protective hedges you were able to duck under precisely when you needed cover. Quirky plot twists so unique to your story that only a master storyteller could have dreamed it up.
These easter eggs of goodness you couldn’t see, couldn’t possibly be aware of in the moment. But weeks, months, years down the road you stumble upon some new perspective, some fresh vantage point. You reach into the rusty drainpipe of your psyche, pull out an egg, all faded with time, and say, “Well, would you look at that?”
Dear friends, these past few weeks have been a cracking good time. Here is a recent round up of some of Kate’s Favorite Things.
I am overjoyed to announce that I have officially signed a book contract with Rabbit Room Press!
Coming in fall of 2027, Let’s Get Coffee will be born into the world. For those of you just tuning in, last year, I was commissioned by Rabbit Room to write a series of articles about community, hospitality, and the existential angst of loneliness. The book will be an synthesis of all my hospitality-related conversations, lectures, articles, and ponderings, plus some new, expanded material.
Guys, this is precisely what I was just talking about…how does a trauma physician assistant/homeschool mom find herself writing a book? It’s a quirky plot twist so unique to my story only a master storyteller could have dreamed it up. I’m so glad he did.
Here’s the article that kicked it all off back in January 2025:
Let's Get Coffee: Navigating the Existential Angst of Loneliness
A new book by Timothy Jones—Fully Beloved: Meeting God in our Heartaches and Our Hopes—just dropped last week. In the relatively short time I’ve known Tim, he’s become a friend, trusted advisor, and powerful force for good in my life. He is a connector of people, a champion of creativity, and an architect of generous, collaborative spaces. Go read his book.
Here’s another little beauty that landed in my mailbox last week. Jennifer Trafton has captured something exquisite here in her book of the life of Lilias Trotter. Jennifer (much like Lilias herself, it seems) is a woman with an eye for detail. Not only is Jennifer a brilliant artist (see her illustrations in the book Glad and Golden Hours), but she also has, perhaps, the most spacious, gamboling imagination I’ve ever been privileged to peek into. It’s an thrill to crack the cover on Jennifer’s new book, If Only We Could See: Reimagining Creativity, Compassion, and Calling Through the Extraordinary Life of Lilias Trotter.
I’m going to keep the book recommendations rolling, here. In conversation with Andi Ashworth, Jennifer Trafton, and Katy Hutson in our delightful writer’s group (aptly named Women Who Write), this book came up in conversation:
Knowing almost nothing about Dorothy Sayers prior to reading it, this biography took me zero to sixty in no time flat. This woman seemed a force to be reckoned with. And how about that early 1990s-era font?
Coffee and explosive croissants with these two delightful humans here in East Nashville during the Mad Space Poet’s poetry tour.
Also featured: my very own JJ Brinski poetry bookmark, gifted to me during last year’s Hutchmoot.
If you aren’t familiar with their work, go ahead and check it out:
6. Over spring break, we enjoyed a relaxing vacation here in our hometown, Nashville, TN. Featuring museums, steamboats, excellent food, trashy mall food, duckpin bowling, photo shoots, waterfalls, and Elvis, sometimes it’s good to kick back with your people.
In closing, a quick note for all of you who have subscribed to That Middle Distance: Thank you! It’s a pleasure to have you here. I truly welcome your thoughts and comments—they make me feel connected to you. So don’t be shy, take a minute to say hello.
If you’re new here, and wondering how often you will receive posts, the answer is (approximately) once a month. There’s a lot of writing going on with various other projects (and I’ll soon have my head down working on my book!), so once a month seems a sustainable commitment. I’m glad you’re here.
Cheers, friends.
Whatever is the opposite of unsubscribing, I’m doing that.
Also love Mark Rylance. So good in Dunkirk, too. Prepare thyself to autograph my copy of your book!