A long time ago, in the ancient city of Athens, in a stone church not far from the Acropolis, lived a small mouse named Cheddar.
Cheddar had chosen the highest rafter in the steeple for his nest. From there he could smell everything that drifted up from the church kitchen below—warm bread, sugared pastries, and most importantly, cheese.
But today was not an ordinary Sunday.
Today was Cheese Sunday.
And tomorrow began Lent.
Cheddar’s whiskers trembled.
For six whole weeks, Father Joseph would remove every wheel, wedge, and crumble of cheese from the kitchen. Eggs would vanish too. The church would grow lean and quiet, and Cheddar would be left to nibble crumbs and dream of Camembert.
He did not like Lent.
He did not like sacrifice.
He did not like empty shelves.
Below him in the Fellowship Hall, the parish ladies were setting out platters for the congregation’s final feast before the fast. Cheddar leaned over the beam and inhaled deeply.
Mozzarella.
Feta.
Gruyere.
Ricotta.
His tiny stomach tightened.
He scampered down to the other mice in the rafters.
“We cannot survive another Lent like last year,” Cheddar whispered. He still remembered six weeks in a bakery attic, surviving on dry bread. Terribly dry. “There must be something we can do.”
The other mice murmured nervously, but Cheddar’s mind was already racing. If the humans removed the cheese for Lent… perhaps the mice could remove it first.
Not to waste it.
Not to gorge.
But to save it.
“To ration it,” Cheddar said, convincing himself more than anyone else. “Just enough to last.”
He told himself it was practical. Sensible. Necessary.
Certainly not stealing.
When the church bell rang and the congregation entered the service, Cheddar’s heart pounded like the clapper above him.
Now.
He darted down the stone wall and into the Fellowship Hall. Platters of cheese gleamed on the long tables. Bowls of eggs shone white and golden in the morning light.
For a moment, Cheddar hesitated.
The room was so still.
So expectant.
Then he thought of six empty weeks.
He grabbed a crumble of feta and ran.
Up and down, back and forth, Cheddar worked furiously. The other mice followed, carrying wedges twice their size. Together they hoisted mozzarella, Swiss, Parmesan, and Gouda into the rafters beside the bell.
Cheddar did not count how much they carried.
He only knew it felt safer when the tables grew bare.
When the last egg had disappeared, Cheddar sat beside the towering stacks of cheese and tried to steady his breathing.
“We did it,” he whispered.
But his stomach hurt.
And not only from the quiche he had tasted along the way.
Below them, voices echoed.
“What happened to the Cheese Sunday banquet?” a parishioner said.
Cheddar froze.
The parish ladies shuffled across the floor. Dishes clattered. Someone gasped.
“This took hours to prepare,” another parishioner said.
Cheddar crept closer to the edge of the beam and peered down.
The Fellowship Hall looked empty and forlorn. Tablecloths sagged. Forks lay crooked on the floor.
The congregation began to murmur.
“It isn’t fair,” someone said.
Cheddar’s ears drooped. Not fair.
That was what he had said about Lent.
Now the humans were saying it too.
He had not meant to spoil their feast. He had only meant to protect himself from hunger.
A shadow moved on the stairs.
Father Joseph came up the steps.
Cheddar’s heart thumped wildly as the priest climbed toward the steeple, Muffin the cat tucked beneath his arm.
“Where are you, Cheddar?” Father Joseph called gently. “I know you love my cheese.”
Cheddar considered hiding.
But he was very tired of running.
When the priest reached the bell, Cheddar was waiting beside the towering stacks.
“I already have a stomachache,” Cheddar confessed in a small voice.
Muffin twitched, preparing to pounce, but Father Joseph raised a hand.
“It is Forgiveness Sunday,” the priest said softly.
Cheddar swallowed.
Forgiveness.
He had heard that word many times drifting up from sermons. He liked the sound of it. He had never needed it quite this much before.
“I was afraid,” Cheddar said. “Six weeks is very long when you are small.”
Father Joseph sat down beside him on the cool stone floor.
“Lent feels long to everyone,” he replied. “That is why we feast first—and why we fast after. We learn that we can live with less.”
Cheddar looked at the mountain of cheese.
He had taken enough for a winter.
More than enough.
The bell above them swayed slightly in the breeze.
Slowly, Cheddar pushed a wedge toward the priest.
“Maybe we saved too much,” Cheddar said.
Father Joseph smiled.
“Perhaps we can share,” the priest said.
That afternoon, the priest carried several platters back down to the Fellowship Hall. The congregation returned, surprised to find the feast restored—though a little smaller than before.
In the steeple, Cheddar and the other mice kept only a modest pile.
Not a fortress.
Not a hoard.
Just enough.
When Lent began the next morning, the kitchen shelves were lighter. The scents were simpler.
Cheddar’s whiskers twitched at the smell of plain bread.
It was not his favorite.
But he discovered something unexpected.
Hunger did not last forever.
And neither did Lent.
On Easter morning, when bells rang out across Athens and the feast returned in full, Cheddar did not rush first to the cheese.
He waited.
Cheddar nibbled his small piece of feta slowly.
He did not take a second. He did not need one.
The bells rang over Athens, and Cheddar felt full.
Copyright 2019 Jennifer Waters
Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:
A long time ago, in the Church of the Holy Apostles in the ancient city of Athens, not far from the Acropolis, lived ten rambunctious mice named Cheddar, Cinnamon, Blueberry, Brownie, Cookie, Banana, Nutmeg, Sugar, Apple, and Apricot.
They each made their own nest in the rafters, hiding their favorite foods which were gathered from the church kitchen. Every Sunday the congregation enjoyed brunch in the Fellowship Hall after the service, and the mice never missed a meal.
“Cheese Sunday is soon upon us!” Cheddar chattered in a high-pitched squeak, hoping for a cheese omelet. “I hate that horrid day! It’s the last Sunday before Lent. Then Father Joseph gets rid of all the cheese and eggs for six weeks. What am I supposed to eat until Easter? It’s not fair,” he clamored in a sing-songy voice of hopelessness.
“Well, we’ll just have to do something radical this year! We’ll go into the Fellowship Hall of the Church and take all the cheese on Cheese Sunday! We can stockpile it and ration it off for six weeks until Easter morning,” Cinnamon shrilled, sprinkling spice into the conversation. She always smelled a bit better than the other mice, which is how she got her name.
“Last year, we lived in the attic of the Jewish Deli for six weeks! Maybe we should have stayed there,” Blueberry sounded with a fruity flavor. Although he loved cheese, fruit was a close second, especially berries he could carry on his back.
“But I do love this old church steeple. Its bell makes such a nice sound. I’d miss it so much,” Brownie squeaked with chocolate lips, finishing a melting ice cream sundae with nuts that she slid all the way from the church freezer.
“Besides, the Jewish Deli served unleavened bread for days! It’s just so bland,” Cookie yelped, nibbling cake morsels.
Of course, Cookie ate all kinds of desserts, but mostly he enjoyed every time cookies crumbled to the floor.
“We’ll get into the Fellowship Hall bright and early and steal the cheese and eggs during the service,” Banana scuffled. After eating bananas, she loved to take the old peels and slip and slide down the handrails of the church steps for fun.
“The nuns set up the meal before the church service, so we can take the cheese and eggs before it’s over,” Nutmeg scratched, moving along the beams in the rafters with the other mice. His nest was the coziest with a church pew pillow.
“Cheese Sunday is also Forgiveness Sunday, so they can’t even be angry at us,” Sugar rasped, sniffing with pride. He could smell sugar from a mile away. If its scent was blown by the wind, he would pick it up for sure.
“Maybe we should try to be polite and leave a note saying that we’re sorry for stealing the meal?” Apple groaned with his roly-poly belly full of one too many apple pies, apple cakes, apple dumplings, apple sauce, and candied apples.
“Yes, and explain that we had no choice,” Apricot whisked, as she tried not to make too much noise in the church rafters. “How can anyone live without cheese and eggs for six weeks? It’s impossible to cut those things out of your diet.”
“It’s a tradition,” Cheddar peeped. “When no one’s looking, Father Joseph must hide a stack of cheese and eggs for himself with Muffin, his silly cat. How many times has Muffin chased me across the church? I almost lost my mouse tail!”
So, first thing in the morning on Cheese Sunday, the mice scurried down the church steeple into the Fellowship Hall. Muffin pranced between the nuns setting up the cheese and eggs, gobbling a boiled egg that rolled right into his mouth.
As the nuns finished setting up the special meal and slipped into the service, the mice set to work taking their bounty. By that point, Muffin had fallen asleep in the corner, snoring on top of a stack of dusty hymnals.
“Hurry! The church service lasts only an hour!” Cheddar piped. “We have to take as much cheese and eggs as we can!”
Other than letting out long cat yawns, Muffin didn’t hear a thing. He was sleeping off the boiled egg. The ten church mice collected every last morsel of cheese and eggs and carried it to the rafters in the steeple.
In their mouths and on their backs, they hoisted Camembert, Ricotta, Mozzarella, Feta, Swiss, Cheddar, Parmesan, Gruyere, Roquefort, Gouda, Colby Jack, and Mimolette, along with scrambled eggs, hard-boiled eggs, soft-boiled eggs, poached eggs, deviled eggs, eggs sunny side up, spinach and ham omelets, egg salad, frittatas, quiche, and baked eggs.
“We did it! We got the cheese and eggs!” Cheddar squealed, stacking the food in orderly rows next to the church bell.
Meanwhile, the congregation was beside itself, wondering what happened to its beloved annual cheese celebration.
“What happened to the Cheese Sunday banquet?” the nuns cried, as they found the Fellowship Hall disheveled.
Tablecloths were on the floor, along with the knives and forks, and not one morsel of cheese or eggs was found at all.
“This took us hours to set up this morning,” the nuns lamented. “What rotten person would steal from a church?”
“Muffin! Did you eat the cheese and eggs?” one of the parishioners asked, as Muffin woke up from his kitty nap. With drowsy eyes, Muffin meowed and ran into Father Joseph’s study and shut the door with his tail, leaving cat prints in the hall.
“This is Forgiveness Sunday,” the priest announced. “Maybe whoever took the cheese and eggs will ask for forgiveness?”
“Fat chance at that!” a second parishioner chided. “Maybe we could always gorge ourselves on donuts instead of cheese!”
“The point of Cheese Sunday is not to gorge yourself,” the priest continued. “We feast before our sacrifice at Lent.”
“Well, today there is no feast,” another parishioner complained. “It’s not fair. I waited all week for the cheese and eggs!”
“God Bless all of you!” the priest winced, ushering everyone home for the afternoon. “See you next week.”
As the nuns cleaned up the Fellowship Hall, the priest promptly marched into his study, grabbing Muffin. Then the two of them walked up the stairs to the bell in the steeple, looking for the naughty church mice.
“Where are you, Cheddar?” the priest called. “I know you have my cheese! No one else would be so obvious!”
When the priest reached the top of the steeple, the rebellious mice sat next to the cheese and eggs with guilty smiles.
“Father, I already have a stomachache from the quiche,” Cheddar whined, admitting he ate too much cheese and eggs.
Muffin jumped from the priest’s arms to pounce on Cheddar for making the congregation think the cat stole the cheese.
“Wait, Muffin!” Father Joseph scolded, as the church mice scurried away from the angry cat. “You can’t chase Cheddar and the other mice on Cheese Sunday! It’s almost Lent. At least we know where to find the cheese if I get hungry during Lent.”
Then Father Joseph sat down next to the mice. With Muffin keeping watch, the priest ate his portion of the rationed cheese and eggs for the day, and every other day throughout Lent.
“After all, cheese tastes almost as good as forgiveness!” he laughed in a jovial voice. The church mice could do nothing but agree.
Copyright 2019 Jennifer Waters
https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/cheese-sunday-narrated-by-jen-waters
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