The apples sit in my aunt’s kitchen sink, glistening with fresh water, evidence of the sacred in a suburban back yard. They’re little – hard and sour beneath skins that are satiny, yellow-green, speckled with brown. These are not apples for eating fresh. But they can be transformed. They cook up gloriously into apple pies, applesauce, apple butter; and the added sugar and spice bring out their quintessential apple flavor.
We’re hard little sour apples, too, with our own speckles and flaws. But we too can be transformed – are constantly being transformed. Life chops us up and cooks us down, but with the addition of the sugar of love and the spice of grace, we become – together – something more than we were. Transformed, perhaps, into our truer selves.