Toward a spiritual autobiography

My grandmother almost always lived in the same house with us. And, on Saturday mornings, she would make “share eggs.” A share egg is a soft-boiled egg, which she timed with her yellow egg timer, over a piece of wheat toast. She cut the egg in half so the warm, custard-like middle could soak into the bread. And, she put a bit of salt and pepper on top. She made two and put them on the same plate.

My memory tells me that my brother Robbie and I would sit on each side of her chair, she in the middle and we would share the egg. Each got a bite in turn.

My other siblings, David and Kristin remember, “share eggs” too but for I suppose because they were younger, I remember eating it with my brother Robbie. I suppose that a memory like that holds different meaning for each of us. It’s kind of like how different everyone’s faith is, it comes through memories, through things passed down.