On Easter Sunday, there’s a hush in the air that always moves me. The dawn feels quiet and golden, as though the whole world is rising together into the same soft light. Shadows stretch long across the ground, the birds seem louder than usual, and in the Christian calendar it is the day that quietly declares, “Hold on. Hope wins.”

There’s something in that morning light — a stillness, a reminder that even when things seem sealed shut, stones can be rolled away. For me, it’s a day of reflection, of gratitude and grace. I try to begin it slowly — chai in hand, heart open — letting the meaning of it all wash gently over me.

But, as it so often does, life meets seriousness with humour.

I was preparing a late lunch for family when, halfway through baking something sweet, I realised I had no eggs.

Not a single one.

On Easter Sunday.

The irony didn’t hit me at first.

So off I went — keys in hand, the apron sensibly left on the kitchen bench. The local supermarket was buzzing with children in Easter pyjamas, their fluffy bunny slippers flapping along the floor. I smiled, my heart full at the sight of them.

But the shelves? Empty. Just a small apologetic sign: “No eggs.”

No worries, I thought. There’s another supermarket close by.

Same story. More empty shelves. The same cardboard shrug.

By the time I drove to a third supermarket, I was determined. Slightly frazzled. Still hopeful.

And somewhere halfway up the escalator, it finally struck me.

I was on an Easter egg hunt.

A real-life, grown-up, 21st-century version. Not in a garden. Not with a basket. Not surrounded by toddlers. Just me, three supermarkets deep, heart full of resurrection hope and in pursuit of actual eggs.

I laughed out loud — the kind of laugh that makes strangers glance sideways but leaves you feeling like you’ve just been let in on a very good joke.

And somehow, it felt fitting.

Because Easter isn’t only about solemn hymns and golden dawns. It’s also about real life — baking mishaps, supermarket sprints, and finding joy tucked into ordinary moments. It’s about the hunt for what we need — hope, peace… eggs — and the quiet delight of discovering we’re not alone in the searching.

In the end, I found them — thank you, Supermarket Number Three. The lunch was lovely, the table full, and the day felt exactly as it should: meaningful, messy, funny, and full of grace.

After all, who says Easter egg hunts are only for children?