Yesterday was Easter Sunday, and there’s something about the dawn of that morning that always moves me. It’s quiet and golden, and the whole world feels like it’s experiencing a sunrise together. The shadows are long, the birds are loud, and it’s Christianity’s greatest day on the calendar — the day that says, “Hold on. Hope wins.”

There’s a hush and a stillness in that morning light, a kind of gentle reminder that, even when things seem dark, the stone can be rolled away. It’s a day of deep reflection for me — of gratitude and grace. I always try to begin it slowly — chai in hand, heart open, letting the meaning of it all wash over me.

But, as always, life has a way of meeting seriousness with humour.

I was preparing for a late lunch for some of the family. I was halfway through baking something — a sweet treat that needed a little rise and a little love — when I realised: no eggs.

Not a single one. On Easter Sunday.
The irony didn’t hit me just yet.

So off I went — apron still on, keys in hand. First stop: our local supermarket. The place was buzzing with happy children in Easter pyjamas, their fluffy bunny slippers flapping along the floor. I smiled at the sight of them — my heart full.

But what did I find for me? Empty shelves. Just a small, apologetic sign: “No eggs”.

Hmm. No worries. There’s another store close by. Off I go.

Same thing. More empty shelves. The same sorry sign, standing like a little cardboard shrug.

By this point, I was starting to feel slightly discouraged. I needed eggs. No eggs meant rewriting my whole lunch menu — and I was already committed to it.

So I drove to a third supermarket. Determined. Slightly frazzled. Hopeful, still.

And it was on the escalator, halfway up, that it finally hit 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 apron flapping in the wind. (Well — not literally. I did have the good sense to leave the apron by the door before getting in the car.)

I laughed out loud right there on the escalator.
The kind of laugh that makes people look at you funny, but also makes you feel like you’ve just been let in on the joke.

And it was, somehow, so fitting.

Because Easter isn’t just about solemn reflection and beautiful hymns and golden dawns.
It’s also about real life. About baking mishaps and supermarket sprints and joy found in the most ordinary of moments.
It’s about the hunt for something we need — for hope, for peace, for eggs — and the delight in realising we’re not alone in the looking.

In the end, I found the eggs. (Thank you, Store Number Three.) The lunch was lovely, the table full, and the day felt exactly as it should: meaningful, messy, funny, and full of grace.

And next year, I think I might just embrace the tradition.

Who says Easter egg hunts are only for children? Not this apron-wearing, escalator-laughing, woman of faith!