Over two thousand years ago, they gather for Passover. This would be their last. Now, I’m boiling beets and eggs and preparing to end this long fast, this ever waiting. In the church, we are always waiting, while also constantly aware of the ever-present arrival. I will press onto the eggs leaves and ferns, fasten with a woman’s stocking, stretched tight around each egg, plunge into the beet broth, just the way my mother taught me. The color is the blood of Jesus. We bury one in the vineyard for a fertile year. I save a white boiled egg and bury it on the side of the house near the honeysuckle bush, and squat atop the spot for a year, hoping the blood that won’t stop flowing from between my legs will find a home on the egg and my body, the doctors say has run out of eggs, will find inspiration in what I’ve planted.