On Easter Blessings and Gratitude

A million little miracles!

I have been wondering what to write to you for a while now. Till this came, like a stubborn itch. When I scratched it out, I had this newsletter.

Image by Femoree (Unsplash)

The Easter celebration was upon us. It was supposed to be one of those ones where we send Happy Easter memes on the family WhatsApp group chat and sleep it away. Yet, somehow, we found ourselves risking a night bus home to spend the Easter holidays together. In our family long standing festive period tradition, my father gets the chicken. We do the cooking. And since he was already buying it, he might as well cut it there. I don't have the details, aside that we don't like cutting it. By we, I mean I. I never sharpen my knife well enough to cut through and when I do, it cuts me. After long tortuous hours of deciding whether the chicken parts are well sized or not, my legs start to hurt long before the cooking has even begun. When I complain, my father obliges me. He lets them cut it for a small token. But it's not everything that he acquiesces to. He had somewhere to go. Someone had to go with him to bring the chicken home. I was that someone. I rose from my after-mass slumber and Easter Sunday morning bliss with a deep-seated reluctance. Must we eat chicken?

It turned out that every family wanted chicken for their Easter stew. Has it always been this rowdy? I can't tell. Coming from a long generational line of planners, it is difficult to. We have never bought chicken this late. So you can imagine my distress when long after my father made the payment and left, the queue wasn't moving. Should I not just take this chicken and cut it myself?

It wasn't the only cause of my distress. There was the chicken getting closer to me as my turn drew closer. God forbid that I am scared of those squeaky creatures. So I will just tell you that I get tense when I am near them. One even walked so close to me in a poorly planned attempt to escape, I nearly flew out.

It was in this distress that I noticed the boy. Short in stature. Unsure. He was helping the adults with the chicken. He would kill it and pluck out its feathers before giving it to his mother to cut. He kept looking up for instructions or assurance that he was getting it right. Like he was expecting a chiding any time. Like he didn't want one. I found out his name was Chimerie. Not because I asked. But because the woman screamed it every second.

“Chimerie, boil more water!”

“Which one, customer? Old layer? Chimerie! Get old layer!!”

“My money? Wait, my hands are bloody. Chimerie..!!”

And so on it went, Chimerie this. Chimerie that. He was younger than me. And I am young.

Suddenly, I shrank back to take in my surroundings. The woman seemed to be between thirties and forties. Her hands moved with the certainty of one that has done this for a long time. I suspect she could cut a chicken even with her eyes closed. She didn't spend more than three minutes on one. It explained why it was finally getting to me. I wondered how long she had to do it to master the art. I wondered if she had a husband. She would since she had children. Or not. Does he provide? Is it enough? Does she do this by choice or as a means of survival?

I took in the boy. How he worked to please. How much he wanted to help. How fast he jumped to respond to his mother's call. The exact opposite of my reaction when I found out that I would be the one to bring home the chicken. I wasn't even buying it. Neither was I cutting it. Yet, I cried more than the bereaved.

It is true what they say. Seeing someone do what you cannot do easily—or with more flair—fills you with awe. The woman. The boy. They stuck. And somehow, in that crowded chicken shed, between the squawks of chicken and the screams of the woman, I heard my own ingratitude ring out.

The thing is that, like this chicken queue, I feel like I am in God's waiting room. I am at that still stage where things do not look like they are moving. For someone that thrives on motion, it feels like punishment. Like all my sins have caught up with me. Yet, here I am next in line to take a Chicken home and getting my stomach ready for a sumptuous Easter meal. And even though I have many problems in life, the worst of it on an Easter morning was losing my sleep. I found out that I am grateful for these little things.

So I decided to write to you about them. To tell you to count your blessings. It's almost month-end. Look around you. A million little miracles!