Essay: Lenten Breakfast

Mar 30, 2018

I get up earlier than usual on a school morning and my father is already shaving in the bathroom.  “Well, well,” he says, “Looks like my date is ready.”

“Aw, Dad, I’m still in my pajamas!”  But my outfit is laid out on the bed—my red plaid dress and patent leather shoes.  Today is the Father-Daughter Lenten Breakfast at our church.

The long tables are set with white cloths and a purple ribbon down the middle.  Bouquets of daffodils alternate with baskets of hot cross buns.  “Where do you want to sit?” my father asks and I let him choose.  He looks so handsome in his dark suit.

Before we eat, the minister leads everyone in a prayer.  Then he invites the fathers to introduce their daughters.  I have to stand up and my heart is beating so fast I can hardly hear my father but I think he uses the word “proud.”

This breakfast is the only thing my father and I do together except dishes and homework. “You’re not eating very much,” he says.  “Are you okay?”

I nod vigorously and take a bite of eggs.  I know that Lent is supposed to be time when you give something up so it seems strange that I get something I want more than anything.  “I’m having a great time,” I say.