Blackberries

It's that time of year. The briars are crying out to be relieved of their load. 'Pick me' is the cry I hear. And so, armed with a small 1 litre plastic jug, I have forsaken all and headed for the fruit strewn hedges that line our road and divide the fields into smaller paddocks. And what a harvest it has been. Since late summer, I have plundered hedgerow after hedgerow, filling jugs with black fruit and returning to base, whereupon the lady of the house searches frantically for some recipe which includes blackberries. So, we have feasted on blackberry jam, apple and blackberry pie, exquisite blackberry muffins with the ever mounting load of unused fruit finding a cold resting place in the now bulging freezer until our longing for those muffins needs to be satisfied again.
But it's not just the picking that I'm going to remember for blackberries are full of surprising lessons that have helped me understand life better and my faith more fully. So here's what I've discovered. I'll leave you you to work out the faith applications for yourself.
It's maybe not an amazing revelation but even though this is the first time that I have really engaged properly in picking the fruit, they've always been there and I've either not noticed them, been indifferent to their presence, ignored them or just never made the time to include them. But they always come back regardless of my response.
Picking blackberries is never a pain-free process. To get to some of the best fruit means negotiating some of the sharpest and largest thorns I've encountered, but the pain has always been worth it, even if it can last for days. And I suppose there's a lesson for us in the fact that even the thorn bushes that we don't admire can bear fruit.
It's funny though that when you start to pull the fruit, it takes time for your eyes to become adjusted to where the blackberries are. Sometimes I can look at a bush and see only a couple and then a few minutes later I'm still standing at the same bush discovering more hidden treasures behind leaves and other weeds. And some mornings, when the sun is still rising in the foreground, it's difficult to differentiate the black ripe berries from those that are still red. Just occasionally the berries are not hidden at all. It's just that I'm not looking in their direction.
I've also discovered that I only become selective in the fruit that I choose to pick when there is plenty of blackberries. Some days I begin at a section of hedge that is not densely populated and their unit is generally smaller. That's when I try to pick every single one on a bush. Later, when the container is getting fuller or in an area where the hedge is laden down with large ripe berries, I leave the smaller ones alone and grab only the best produce. It's sloŵ work too, picking blackberries. Even a small one litre jug can take over  an hour to fill as every attempt is made to avoid thorns and nettles.
And when I return home, it's pretty evident what I've been doing for my fingers are stained in a dark purple dye and little seeds are lodged under my finger nails.
But what I have learned most from picking blackberries this year is that it gives me time to think. Precious time indeed. To think that my inner stains can also be washed away, to know that God is always near me, like the old hymn says. And to know that the reason we often don't see Him is because we look in the wrong place or don't search hard enough. He opens blinded eyes to the spiritual food He can supply and He takes away all our stains.
I went out today to pull some more blackberries. I'd seen them last week but never got around to picking them. But now they were gone, all dried up or inedible. I'd just left it too late. Only by a few days. But still too late. To be too late searching is to never find. For ever.