Got eggs?
For some people, God speaks in quiet whispers — but not to me

I know people who say that God speaks to them in quiet whispers. I don’t really get that concept, probably because He usually has to shout really loudly to get my attention.

My children were playing Yahtzee upstairs. They were having quiet sibling bonding time, a rare treat these days. Of course, like any work-at-home mom with a candle burning at both ends and clean down the middle, I seized the opportunity to check and answer e-mail, got sidetracked by something I needed to look up online, did a little research for a story…

POW!

“Kids, whatever you are doing, stop or take it outside,” I said, without ever looking up from my computer.

That I got no response would have worried me a few years ago, but now that my babies are 13 and 7, I have gotten used to being ignored. In reality, I figured they were whispering accusations, as in “Now look what you did. You better clean that up before Mom comes up here.”

POW!

“Children! What are you doing?”

Again, no response. I know what you’re thinking, but in my defense, no one started crying after the thunderous explosion, so I figured no harm, no foul.

POW!

After the third explosion, you would think I would have gotten up from my desk.

I didn’t.

It was still productive work time, even with the interruptions and again — no crying. I’ve done this mom thing long enough to know that if something really bad has happened, one child will be crying as the other is mounting a defense worthy of Clarence Darrow.

I had the fleeting thought that it wasn’t my children after all. A flock of birds crashing into the sunroom windows, perhaps? If so, did I really want to get up and see the carnage?

POW!

OK, four was the charm. As I approached the stairs, I could hear that Yahtzee was still going full force in my son’s room and I had the sinking feeling that I had forgotten something.

I remembered something I forgot as I rounded the corner into the dining room. Eggs were lying in bits across the kitchen floor like ticker tape after the World Series parade.

Eggs on the ceiling, the lights, the cabinets, the counters.

Odd, green-colored, hard-boiled eggs. I was living a Dr. Seuss nightmare.

My two dogs bounded into the room like it was Christmas morning. “Eggs! It’s raining eggs!” they must have thought. I ducked and covered as I made my way to the stove, eggs continuing to explode all around me.

Half an hour before, egg salad seemed like such a great idea for a summer lunch, but the moment I put the pot of eggs and water on to boil, I instantly forgot it and walked away.

In case you didn’t know, eggs explode fiercely once all the water has boiled out of the scorching hot pot.

As I scraped egg yolk off the front of the refrigerator, I knew when God yells at me to slow down, learn to say no, and put that candle out every now and then, He doesn’t do it in a still, small voice.

Moses got a burning bush.

Me? I got eggs.