Beautiful but Not Pretty: Brokenness and the Art of Baking Pies
“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone. The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes. To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.” – Cynthia Occelli
One of my most memorable months on the Race I got to work in a cafe where I helped bake pies on Mondays with Annie; chocolate cream pie, traditional apple pie, New York cheesecake, coconut cream pie, Oreo cheesecake, lemon meringue pie and pecan pie. I’m pretty sure racers were the top pie eating customers that month.
It was month 6, the half way point of the Race and my first month as a raised up squad leader. My team was now scattered across the country and I was adopted for the month as a pseudo team member of a dynamic group of girls with the best team name, I think, in World Race history; Flock Seven Deep #whattheflock.
It was also the month my heart was like a seed dying in the dirt and yet resisting the appearance of “complete destruction”. My shell was cracked, my insides were out and I was coming undone. It wasn’t pretty.
Baking with Annie was like edible art therapy. My job was to roll out the dough and make the pie crusts look beautiful by crimping the edges with my finger to create the classic fluted look. There is both a science and an art to pie making and despite my love for baking both required a level of finesse and hand eye coordination that was beyond my expertise. Annie made it look easy. I made it look like play-dough.
However, determined to master the technique, I stayed focused on the task at hand while trying to make light of my perfectionist tendencies. With each new pie Annie would encourage my intentional focus and gently chuckle every time I ended up with uneven creases. Then, like a potter with clay in her hands, she would effortlessly knead the dough into place in seconds. I’m telling you, she was amazing.
While peeling apples together for her traditional apple pie, I asked Annie about her story. She spoke softly as she shared about her past. My heart hung on her every word, trying to imagine the reality she described. Though I didn’t grow up with the same poverty stricken hardships in the countryside of Vietnam, I could identify with the level of brokenness she expressed.
“Wow” I said, “you have a beautiful story.”
“Oh…no” she replied, “my story is only beautiful after I met Jesus.”
I’ll never forget the humility and gratitude in her voice. Annie smiled as she placed two pieces of pie on a plate. We sat together, aware of our brokenness, and let the reality of her words sink in; our stories are beautiful because we met Jesus.
Months later as I reflect on this stage of my Race, I don’t see complete destruction; I see strength in His suffering and growth in His glory. I see His beauty in my brokenness.
And though there are days I wish I could go back to make of the details pretty, I move forward knowing that He makes the whole beautiful.
