The Last Deviled Egg

It weren’t nothing but an egg. A deviled one at that.

The line was long in the church fellowship hall. I was one of three pastors scrambling around. 

The Baptists, Lutherans, and Presbyterians decided to get together to eat. Our congregations share a neighborhood, and we’ve been told to love our neighbors as ourselves. We’re all trying to do that the best we can.

We chose to eat together because our faith calls us to come to the table to commune. That and because we simply love to eat. 

We love covered dishes. We are passionate about potlucks. 

A few of us wanna show off what we can do in the kitchen. We want folks to see our grandmother’s CorningWare.The bread-making fell to me. My offering nothing more than a gigantic biscuit. Still warm from the oven, butter imprinting the tea towel like the Shroud of Turin, my hands tore it apart in front of hungry eyes. Steam erupted from its center into the air around me. It found its way into baskets and soon into mouths.

After a prayer, the sound of discarded tinfoil and Tupperware tops popping echoed off the walls. No instructions on forming lines. People here know how to arrange themselves.

I stayed near the back, jawing. Too afraid to be first, because I’d read somewhere that the first would be last. Yet I couldn’t stop my eyes from working over the tables.

That’s where I saw them—a plate of deviled eggs. Their dabs of sunshine rested on perfectly smooth white clouds. 

Somebody’s got to love you to make you deviled eggs. Somebody has to stand over a sink, cracking shells. They have to peel them without tearing off too much white. 

Somebody has to decide the ratio of Duke’s mayo to French’s Mustard, mix it, and pipe it back in. Somebody has to carry them across town, hold them in their lap, and pray they don’t slide off the plate. Every family has an egg person. The mantle was passed from my grandmother to Aunt Pat. 

On Fourth of July weekend, she would parade it like a Grand Marshall. Her covered dish of eggs held out in front with reverence. As good as the fresh green beans were and as amazing as the mashed potatoes were, nobody talked about them the way they talked about Pat’s eggs. She would place them at the end of the food line. No matter the weight of a plate, no matter the height of stacked fried chicken and sides, one of her deviled eggs would mount the top of every pile. The tiniest of choices becoming the pièce de résistance.

“I’m stuffed,” my father would say. My grandmother would remind him she had pie waiting with his name on it.

He’d draw out a long “noooooooo” before adding, “If I eat any more, I’ll bust.”

Then, without fail, he’d walk by the kitchen counter and shove one more egg in his mouth. Satisfaction etched all over his face. I wanted that same feeling, but the eggs were disappearing fast. I closed my eyes and prayed. 

They say the Lord hears the prayer of a righteous man. I don’t know about that. I just hoped an egg would be there when I strolled through. I said as much to Mama Jo. She is of my flock. A Back-row-Baptist. 

Once at a deacons meeting, she told those with ears to hear to “shit or get off the pot.” She is what my mother would call “our people,” the kind that’ll feed you before she scolds you.

“My God, Jo,” I said. “Reckon I’ll get lucky enough to snag one of them eggs before they get gone?”

“I knew they would,” she said back. “I got me one.”

And then a pause. Mama Jo turned to me.

“If you don’t get one, I’ll give you half of mine,” she said. I smiled. The thought of splitting a deviled egg was enough to keep my hope in humanity alive for another day. The service continued. We talked to strangers who soon had names. We sang songs. By the second go-round of “Welcome Table,” everybody found their rhythm.

“I’m gonna sit at the welcome table

I’m gonna sit at the welcome table one of 

these days, hallelujah

I’m gonna sit at the welcome table

Sit at the welcome table one of these 

days, one of these days”

After we filled our bellies, we filled our cups. Pitchers passed from hand to hand around the tables. Somewhere between the already and not yet, Mama Jo appeared. She stood confidently before me in her printed blue dress. It was then that I noticed that her shoes and lipstick matched. Magenta.

“Here’s your egg,” she said.

Halved for me.

Broken for me.

Given to me.

I picked it off her plate and thanked her. A single bite and it was gone.

It weren’t nothing but an egg.

A deviled one at that.

This story originally appeared in Good Faith Media.