apple pie

We made an apple pie last night.

We had an abundance of apples and it had been a cold, dreary day, and apple pie just seemed right.

I got out the cookbook and lined up the ingredients and measuring cups on the counter so we could begin mixing the crust.

I have to pause right here and tell you that I have a serious problem with perfection. Much of my life feels like chaos, so the things I can control, I control hard. Pies are one thing I can control. There IS such a thing as a perfect crust. I made one once, so every pie since then has been held up to that perfect standard.

It’s not just pies, though. My desire for perfection sucks the joy out of imperfect moments and spills over onto my kids, making them walk on eggshells and afraid to try for fear they may fail. It’s miserable. And it’s ultimately rooted in pride. It’s me being “good enough;” being my own little god. And it keeps the real God, the one whose “power is made perfect in my weakness,” from shining His glory through me. It’s me trying to get everyone to watch my shadow puppets on the wall when there is a feature film on the big screen. And, sadly, my girls are used to living with the impossible standard of my perfectionism.

The one making the pie with me has some difficulties with fine-motor control, so measuring and pouring ingredients is a bit of a challenge. As I watched the oil spill over the side of the measuring cup, I made that little squeak moms make when their darlings are about to do something wrong. She flinched and I could feel the joy of the project start to fade. I knew in that split second, I needed to decide between a perfect pie or a perfect moment.

I said, “Oh, don’t worry, you’re doing just fine,” and quietly adjusted the other ingredients to make up for the extra oil. We continued on, cutting the apples, mixing the filling (there was also too much sugar, but that may have been on purpose), and rolling out the crust, laughing and chatting as we worked.

This girl’s story isn’t mine to tell, so I am not going to give you details of her life before I met her, but I can tell you that if you go without food long enough, you can train your body not to feel hunger. And if you go without safety long enough you can train yourself never to let your guard down (and never, ever to laugh). If you go without compassion and affection long enough, you can train yourself not to emotionally attach to any people who might hurt you.

For this child to be in the kitchen preparing food, laughing, and interacting with an adult she’s learning to trust was no small thing. Even using a knife without fear was a really big deal. Heaven was watching. Angels were rejoicing. This event had little to do with apples & dough and everything to do with connection and belonging and redemption and joy and love. This was about freedom to make mistakes and make a mess and the freedom to eat apple pie for supper.

We rolled the dough between wax paper and tried unsuccessfully to peel it free in one piece. It was so oily it fell into the pan in chunks and had to be smushed together to fill in the gaps. The top crust wasn’t much better, but we got it on there and cut a raggedy heart in the middle to let the steam out. It looked like nothing you’d see on Instagram or Pinterest, but she was delighted with it, and I was delighted with her delight. She waited impatiently for it to bake and then we ate it for supper. There were some heated up leftovers too, for the sake of convention (so you can’t judge us!), but the pie was the main course. It was yummy, and we thoroughly enjoyed it, though she did have the nerve to tell me that Grandma’s crust is better than mine. She ate leftover pie for breakfast this morning and told me she has plans to teach her sisters how to make apple pie.

I almost missed this.

So many times I have. My self-centered obsession with getting things just right has ruined many beautiful moments. I’ve been reading the Gospels lately, and I need to be more like Jesus. The only truly perfect man who ever walked the earth was surrounded by some of the most imperfect, impulsively foolish people who ever lived, and he loved it. He loved THEM. He didn’t insist on them getting things right. He just wanted their faith. When they believed, his power was unleashed and mighty miracles happened. But when they were blinded by protocol and perfection and rules, he had to shake the dust from his sandals and walk disappointedly to the next town.

Of course we can do things well, and of course it is my job to teach my children the right way to do things. But by the end of a day, if my approval is the measure of their value and self-worth, then I have done harm. My delight in them and my love for them should never feel earned. God forgive me for the times I’ve made being connected less important than being correct. Let me pray like Paul, who used to beg for God to take away the humiliating weakness that kept him from being perfect:

Three different times I begged the Lord to take it away. Each time he said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong. 2 Corinthians 12:8-10 NLT

Crumbly, lopsided crusts, fragile emotions, messy rooms, bad relationship skills, too many extra pounds, lousy parenting moments, really bad mistakes we can’t undo….all of this makes God bigger. My weakness shows off his glory. My imperfection is the best way to display His perfection. If I’m a total disaster, then clearly, it’s only Jesus who is making things work.

My family and the rest of the world don’t need me to try to be perfect. They just need me. Broken, messy me, with the indescribable glory of the Most Holy One shining through all the cracks and crumbles.