GOOSEBERRY GOSPEL [T, 10-21-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Memories of a Sojourner in the Years of Winter—GOOSEBERRY GOSPEL [T, 10-21-25]

 

When John hanged himself, in the county jail, he was 20 years old. His mother’s response was to bake me a gooseberry pie.

I had spent a lot of time with John, as he wrestled with his demons. They started bedeviling him when he was a young teen and never let up much.

I also spent a lot of time with his parents, as they tried to understand their son. That was when I told Eunice about gooseberry pie.

When we moved to our little hardscrabble farm, when I was ten years old, we had a gooseberry bush. It was very protective of its berries. Sharp thorns on the bush made picking the berries a painful experience. But it was quite productive. It was also our only source of fruit, which meant it was our only source of pie.

So I would pick the berries, and Mother would bake a pie. It wasn’t a very good pie. Gooseberries are really sour. They have tough coats, and once you get by them, they’re sort of slimy. You have to use tons of sugar to make them edible.

We didn’t have much sugar, though, because we had no money to buy it. Mother would sweeten the gooseberries as much as she dared, needing to save sugar for other uses, but eating it was still a sour experience.

A sour experience. A real pie experience. A satisfying experience.

It was satisfying because we had done the best we could with what we had, to create a pie experience, especially for my little sister and brother, barely toddlers back then, almost 80 years ago.

That’s why, when her son committed suicide, Eunice baked me a gooseberry pie.

As I write this, my little brother is in a cancer hospital, readying for surgery. My little sister is dead. So is Eunice. And, as I pray, gooseberry pie is sweet in my memory and in my hopes, a symbol of the Gospel.

John Robert McFarland