Did the Pig die in vain

As a young lad I would sit at breakfast eat sausage and often wondered if the pig died in vain. Even at a young age I knew my life was nothing more than a vessel that would eventually lead to death. More than anything, I didn’t want to die in vain. On one particular Saturday morning I asked, “Why don’t we ever have eggs for breakfast?”
My mother replied, “Because we’re having chicken for supper and I’m afraid they might be related and I don’t want to be responsible for the genocide of a chicken family.”
From that day forward I ate in silence and Saturday breakfast became mundane. I even quit chuckling when my younger brother would put the links of sausage in his nose and pour the syrup on my sister’s golden blond hair. I just sat and chewed, but I was chewing on more than just food. I was also chewing on the meaning of life and what his purpose was. Each night, on bended knees, I prayed for guidance. I prayed for a sign. Each time I inquired why a being so mighty didn’t send him a clue.
Several Saturdays later I awoke to the smell of something different that had been prepared for the breaking of my nocturnal fast. I came to the table wiping the sleep from my eyes and shaking off the effects of a fitful night’s sleep to find a table full of ham, biscuits, red eyed gravy, grits, and apple juice.
I wondered aloud, “How is my brother gonna get one of those big pieces of ham in his nose.”
Then I lamented to my mother that apple juice would have him shitting like a goose before and through lunch and supper.