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It was the annual Fall Festival in Crawfordsville, Indiana, and for the first time in fifteen years, they’d asked Jean Collins to judge the pie contest. She almost said no.
Jean had lived in Crawfordsville her whole life. She’d taught second grade for thirty years, raised three kids, and been a member of the local Methodist church choir longer than she could remember. But when it came to making decisions that affected others, Jean had a habit of second-guessing herself. Whether it was picking a restaurant for her birthday dinner or choosing a new shade of paint for her living room, she’d twist herself in knots trying to make the “right” choice.
So when the festival committee asked her to be one of three judges for the pie contest, Jean smiled politely and said she’d “think about it.” That night, she lay awake imagining how it could all go wrong, what if she picked the wrong pie? What if someone’s feelings got hurt? What if folks talked behind her back afterward, whispering that she didn’t know a good crust from a cracker?
Her daughter, Amy, finally gave her a nudge. “Mom, you’ve baked more pies than anyone in this county,” she said. “You always know which one’s best. You’ve just got to start trusting yourself.”
So Jean said yes.
The day of the festival was crisp and golden, the air smelling of kettle corn and fresh hay. A dozen pies were set out on a long table covered in a gingham cloth: apple, cherry, pecan, and even one ambitious rhubarb.
Jean took her time with each slice, savoring them carefully. As the other two judges deliberated, Jean felt that familiar knot rising in her stomach. But this time, she caught herself. She closed her eyes, breathed in, and thought about which one had made her smile when she tasted it. It wasn’t the prettiest pie, and it didn’t have the flakiest crust, but something about that warm spiced pear filling felt like home.
She pointed to it. “That one,” she said firmly. The other judges nodded in agreement.
Later, as the winner, a shy young woman named Grace who’d just moved to town, came up to accept her ribbon, she whispered to Jean, “I almost didn’t enter. I figured no one would pick mine.”
Jean smiled. “I almost didn’t judge. Seems like we both made the right call.”
As she walked home with a slice of Grace’s pie wrapped in a napkin, Jean realized that the little voice inside her had been right all along. She just had to learn to listen.
