By Michael A. Milton | Pastor, First Presbyterian Church, Chattanooga
I grew up eating mincemeat pie. Aunt Eva made them every
Christmas, and as a child I loved those pies. They were made of a finely
chopped, cooked mixture that included raisins, currants, apples, suet, sugar,
spice, candied peel and often meat, brandy or cider and other ingredients.
Mincemeat pies were as much a part of my Christmas sensory experience as the
scent of a Christmas tree freshly cut from our pasture and the sight of cheap,
festive lights just purchased from Live Oak Hardware in Watson, Louisiana.
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Later, I grew tired of mincemeat. I am not sure if it
was the spices that got to me or if it was the coating that clung to my palate
several hours after having eaten one. Mae remembers my informing her soon after
we were married, "Aunt Eva still thinks I like mincemeat pies for
Christmas; but the truth is, I do not like them at all. I am tired of
them." In fact, until one night recently, just outside the village of
Tobermorey on the Isle of Mull in Scotland, I do not think I had tasted mincemeat
pie since my grace awakening in Jesus Christ in 1985.
We had eaten our dinner that evening in the beautiful
little fishing village with the strange name. The night was velvet black as we
were winding our way back to our hotel. There was a trace of moonlight
squeezing through the low-pitched Hebridean clouds. The seemingly ancient roads
were narrowed to one lane. The endless flocks of sheep were grazing
nonchalantly on roadside grass. Suddenly my wife yelled, "Stop!" I
slammed on the brakes!
