A few days before Mary died, I was in my kitchen peeling apples to make two pies for her family. As I thought of my sister and the hundreds of apple pies she’d made over the years, I couldn’t help but smile.  She would “throw them together” while carrying on a complete conversation with her guests…. all of whom would stand around the kitchen counter, fascinated by what she was doing. She never measured anything, just operated on instinct. And her pies always turned out perfectly.

Then suddenly, while remembering Mary and her pies, I started to cry – not over the memories but over a baking question.

I couldn’t remember whether or not I should put bits of butter atop the apples before adding the top crust, and I desperately wanted to ask my sister, the pie expert. But she was a few blocks away, lying quietly in her bed, in a deep sleep. And she couldn’t give me any advice.

After putting my pie in the oven, I went to spend time with Mary. She “let” me hold her relaxed hand, and I leaned close to her sleeping face so she could hear me. “This morning I couldn’t remember if I should add butter to my apple pie or not. What do you do?”

Of course she didn’t answer, but I continued. “Would bits of butter make it soupy or not? I really want my pie to turn out like yours.”

As she slept, I kept talking, reminding her of a camp auction years ago and a comical bidding war over an apple pie Mary had contributed. The winner had gladly paid $25 for it, testifying that he’d tasted Mary’s pies before and knew it would be worth the money.

Hoping Mary was silently giggling in her heart at that memory, I tried to make a soft giggle for both of us — but it wouldn’t come out. My vision was blurring again, and the process going on in front of me wasn’t the least bit funny. That’s when talking about apple pie suddenly seemed out of place.

So I just sat there, studying Mary’s pretty face, listening to her regular breathing. And flooding my mind were a hundred ways I was going to need my sister’s advice after she was gone.

That evening my apple pie did get eaten, but the second pie never got made. That pile of Granny Smith apples is still sitting on my kitchen counter as they had been that day before Mary died. Without her advice about the bits of butter, I don’t even want to make it. And now that she’s gone, heavy on my mind is something else: How many other questions did I fail to ask?

And now it’s too late.

“The righteous and the wise and their deeds are in the hand of God.” (Ecclesiastes 9:1)