Then this morning after letting out the hens I peeked in the nesting boxes. Nothing. My eye roved toward the corner of the dormitory and I saw them. A pair of perfect eggs. While the chickens apparently did not find the crates fluffy with wood shavings a proper place to park their precious eggs, I was nonetheless thrilled. The joy percolated out but I knew it would come spilling when the girls came home from school. 

I casually suggested that Aurelle check, as we do every day. She said it was probably a waste of time, but I stood next to her as she opened the coop. Since she is shorter than me she could not see the eggs and gave up. I lifted her and she squealed.

"There they are!! Hope come see!" I lifted her up too and we tried to reach them. They were far enough out of reach that I needed a broom to sweep them closer. 

We added a few from the store and had a yummy lunch with toast and orange slices. Our first eggs. Finally here. 

There is a woman whose marriage has been infertile for many years. I say that not unkindly, she would say it herself. There was no sense of coziness, no visible signs of fruitfulness. It felt barren to her for many seasons. There were days she listened to her friends' stories of sweet anniversaries and dinnertime conversations, wondering when it would be her turn. 

But one day, after she stopped looking for proof, it came in the form of companionship. After the expectations faded away, she began to notice that while he would never be what some people might call a catch, he was loyal. He was a reliable provider and he married for keeps.

She began to see the gifts in unexpected places. Maybe she would not ever rank among the sizzling set, but she felt a sustaining gratitude for a husband who drove off to work every day and came home to her every night. That was something. 

Maybe even enough.