If you are like me, even the smallest stretch of sunshine draws me outside, for I know that in a short time fall’s chill will lure me indoors, searching for new soup recipes, instead. Tuesday was luscious so I grabbed a bowl and headed to Blackberry Heaven.
I don’t know whether it was a Ritter or a Klope child who named that particular section of forest covering our adjoining properties, but for years the kids gathered there to forage and play. As I quietly walked toward the bushes on Tuesday, I imagined those days when they built forts and rode their bikes, hollering to each other on the run, “Meet me at Blackberry Heaven!”
There was plenty of evidence they’d snacked on the berries. Dirty, purple-stained fingers. Smudges on the front of their play clothes and around their mouths. If I got lucky a few would make it into a bucket. Those became cobbler or jam. Mostly the the soft, medium-sized berries, so deeply purple in color they almost appear black, were popped into their mouths. It didn’t matter that they weren’t washed beforehand.
On Tuesday, it was just me, the golden lab we call Jack and his goofy golden retriever friend Buddy. The gentle breeze scattered leaves along the path and the sun heated the berries enough to fill the air with sweet fragrance. As the dogs brush busted after bunnies I went about the prickly business of harvesting berries.
At first I felt hurried. I had a mental list of tasks still needing my attention. But I calmed my own revved engines by remembering a promise I’ve made to myself: I will take in the gifts of the Pacific Northwest as they arrive. It’s challenging at times to stop and do this, but each time I am able to quiet the rush of thoughts, quiet, gentle ideas trickle in.
I both love and hate berry picking. It’s somewhat hazardous. Invariably my hair or clothing get caught on the vines. The bees, feasting on over-ripe berries and flowers, buzz menacingly around my head. My fingers turn purple and pricked by the thorns. But I press on. I wear an apron to save my clothing from staining. I snack here and there. And Tuesday, I imagined the small, individual blackberry pies I’d make inside canning jars later that evening.
When I shut out my own loud thoughts and open my heart to the quiet, lyrics of my favorite hymns often come to mind. And it occurs to me that picking blackberries is a lot like my life. There is often pain when reaching for the prize. It’s often prickly and painful. Occasionally, what I want is out of reach. And more often, when I think I’ve got it all figured out, believing I’ve harvested all the lessons God would have for me, I realize that only when stepping back can I see additional berries—His gifts to me—once obscured by the foliage.
This is my Father’s world, He shines in all that’s fair.
In the rustling grass I hear Him pass,
