Candy Apple Grace
Finding Sweetness in the Small Things of Fall
There’s a particular hush in Fall. The kind that makes leaves sound like a soft applause. The air cools, the light goes honey-gold, and even the grocery aisles turn into a parade of apples, spices, and a warm invitation.
I used to think joy was only found in the grand, the rare, the “once-in-a-lifetime” moments. But lately, God keeps tucking sweetness into ordinary corners: a mug that fits my hands just right, the crisp snap of an apple, a laugh that lingers like fragrance on a scarf.
Maybe joy isn’t a quick race to the finish line, but maybe it’s a bite, one small yes to the goodness already here.
Beyond the Hard Shell
The other day I stood over the sink with a crisp apple and reached for the cinnamon from the top kitchen drawer. No fancy equipment. No “perfect” timing. Just a small urge to celebrate being alive at this very moment. I sliced, sprinkled, and whispered a prayer:
“Lord, teach me to taste and see right here!”
And you know what? Joy answered like a bell.
That moment of joy took me back to a memory of when I was about nine years old. My brother and I were Mom’s little sous-chefs for Fall, the candy-apple crew. We’d line up granny smiths on wax paper like shiny green soldiers, melt sugar, add the coloring until it turned ruby red, and then we’d roll each apple through that glossy red concoction. Those candy apples had a shell so hard you’d swear you might lose a tooth. But we took the risk anyway, because the sweetness called our name. And when the shell finally gave, crack, there it was: tart fruit, sweet coat. Sometimes we’d do caramel too. Thick, buttery, and a little messy, the kind you have to chase with a napkin. Fall in a single bite.
Halloween back then was simple. Costumes from a closet ranging from a princess, fireman, something put together with a bedsheet and imagination. We went door to door with the other kids on our street. Smiling neighbors dropping mini candy bars and other goodies into plastic pumpkins and whatever was made available to catch and carry the candy was what it was all about. It wasn’t a theological moment; it was childhood pure and uncomplicated. Joy wearing a costume, kindness on every porch.
Back home, Mom had a system. She poured our candy onto the kitchen table and made two even piles. Somehow this process required her to “sample” a piece or two in the name of fairness. (That’s what she told us, anyway.) The real whodunit was Dad’s sweet tooth involving mysterious disappearances that still make me laugh to this day. Candy justice had a way of turning into candy memory.
What Those Apples Taught Me About Grace
Looking back, those nights feel like a parable, one that didn’t preach at me, but stayed with me. Here’s what I see now:
Grace meets us in the fun and the ordinary. It wasn’t a church pew; it was a sticky kitchen, a crowded table, and laughter. God’s goodness can be loud with hymns or quiet with caramel.
Grace evens out unevenness. My piles weren’t always equal. Life’s aren’t either. But love, real love, keeps finding ways to make room, to share, and to level what feels off-balance.
Grace is both risk and reward. You bite into a hard shell, wondering if it will hurt, and discover sweetness worth the crack. Choosing forgiveness or kindness can feel like that first bite, it’s risky, and then unexpectedly good.
Grace is sticky on purpose. It clings. It stays with you. It’s the kind of sweetness that doesn’t wash away with one rinse; it lingers, reshaping how you talk, how you thank, how you show up.
I don’t want to over-spiritualize a childhood memory, but I also don’t want to miss what it’s still teaching me: God has been threading kindness through ordinary days for a long time. Sometimes it looks like a neighbor’s front porch, a mother’s careful sorting, or a daddy’s mischievous sweet tooth. Sometimes it looks like two kids daring a too-hard candy apple shell for the joy underneath.
When God Uses Sweetness to Slow Us Down
Sweetness is a teacher. It asks us to pause, to savor. To let gratitude be a way of seeing, not just a thing we say at the end. When I taste something good, I remember the Lord is not just right, He is good. He delights to meet us in kitchens and car rides, on porches and park benches, and yes in dessert and the desert.
“Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed is the one who takes refuge in him “ — Psalm 34:8
A Gentle Practice to Taste Grace Today
If you’d like to join me, here’s a simple, gentle rhythm for your journal (or your gratitude list):
Remember (1 minute): Name one ordinary moment from today that felt kind or steady. (A smile, a text, a warm cup, a safe drive.)
Receive (1 minute): Write one sentence about how you let that moment land in your heart. (No fixing, no earning, just receiving.)
Return (1 minute): Name one small way you can pass that grace along before bed. (A thank-you message, an extra hug, the better half of the last dessert.)
If today feels tender and you’re not quite there, pray the Joy in Renewal Prayer from my previous Notes. Let God meet you where you are, no performance required.
May this season be full of candy-apple moments with sweetness that coats the tart places, kindness that evens out our uneven piles, and grace that sticks in all the best ways. That’s joy… joy God’s way.
Closing Prayer
Father, thank You for meeting me in the ordinary in clinking spoons, crisp apples, and golden light. Teach me a slower joy, a savoring joy, that notices Your goodness before I hurry past it. Sweeten my words, soften my edges, and make my presence a warm place for others to rest.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
**Question for You**
“What Fall treat or doorstep memory still makes you smile?” Tell me in the comments, because I would love to hear about your experience!
If this blessed you, would you:
Share one “sweet” moment from your week in the comments
Forward this to a friend who needs a warm slice of encouragement
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