Harvesting Wild Blueberries

“Welcome everything broken and everything beautiful. Trembling and holy and drifting and brave.” Rebecca Reynolds

Have you ever felt broken? I’m not talking about blithe sadness, but rather the bone-crushing weight of disappointment. Have you ever looked at your hands and wondered if you would ever hold happiness in them again? You remember what it felt like. It was like caramel corn in your mouth by the seaside on a mild summer day. The breeze was blowing and your skin was warm and cool at the same time. But now your grasp is weak. The clouds have rolled in and the breeze is just like ice blowing through your heart. Have you ever felt that way?

On a recent trip to the country I sat down with a neighbor who spoke to me of this kind of disappointment. As she tried to clean her pool—a seemingly impossible task because there was so much algae and the filter kept clogging—she shared with me how weak were the fingers of someone she loves. She spoke of a series of familial suicides. She spoke about financial difficulty. She spoke about discord with another family member and the ache of daily rejection. As she exposed her wounds and talked about depression, I sensed a deeper despair she was not ready to reveal. Still, she spoke of the goodness of God.

“I wouldn’t be here today if not for His help. He has carried me through.”

We sat in a newly built cabin that was filled with her treasures. Her “peaceful enclave” contained an old wood burning stove, special antique furniture, and a bevy of plaques on the walls that pronounced the grace of God in flowing script. She had written peace all over the place and it certainly felt like an oasis from sadness, but I have yet to find walls that are truly strong enough hold out the tentacles of sadness and despair.

Our family had gone camping against my better wishes. My husband longed for a country getaway while I longed for the seaside. I said, “Can’t we just get in the car and drive to Gulf Shores, AL? We could be on the beach in a few hours’ time with our toes in the sand. But he shook his head adamantly and my heart fell like a stone into muddy water. My middle son voiced the soft thrums of my disappointment.

“Mom, please don’t make me go. I don’t want to sleep in a tent. I don’t want to be in the woods with the ticks and chiggers and mosquitoes.” Because while we certainly love the country, past trips have proved stressful, uncomfortable and just plain hot. And then we come home covered in bug bites and scratch for weeks until they heal. Still, I tried to encourage my boy to find something positive to focus on, things like swimming in the river, catching toads and crawdads, and staring at the stars by the campfire. Still, he sobbed great big tears of disappointment and my sad momma heart ached with him.

What do you do when you feel like that? When (like my son) you are forced to walk a path you do not choose. When the earth shifts after a loved one’s life is cut short. When the doctor’s knife misses its mark and leaves you with permanent numbness or pain. When the Harley is repossessed. When you tear your SI joint while loading the truck with camping supplies. How do you respond?

We woke up that first morning in a haze of sunlight through the trees. It shone into the tent as if to say, “Wake up! The day is here and you’re missing it!” I stumbled through the morning routine; get dressed, spray on more insect repellant, rub my aching back, fumble for the coffee. Meanwhile my youngest son was gesticulating about exploring the woods while I wanted to sit back in my camp chair and let the ibuprofen take effect. I tried to ignore him—after all, the last thing I wanted to do was going exploring the woods at the height of tick season, but after a little nudge from the Holy Spirit, I reasoned it was probably right to go with him.
He sprinted down the hill and into a dry creek bed while I leaned heavily on my walking stick. He hollered, “Mom, come look at this cool rock. Is that what the Indians made arrow heads out of?” I said, “No, dear one. That’s sandstone.” He said, “What’s sandstone?” I said, “It’s what’s on the beach in Gulf Shores, AL only harder and not as pretty.” Okay, I didn’t really say that last bit but I wanted to. Still, I tried to take my own advice to Randy, my middle son (who was still hiding in his tent on a rapidly deflating air mattress). I looked for toads and cool rock formations and listened to my younger son prattle on about acorns. And there in the midst of my wandering I saw them, the little purple berries growing on a green bush no taller than my shins. I recognized the leaves because we had tried to grow blueberries bushes in our yard for several years. Unfortunately, they all died. They berries were small but unmistakable. So I ate them. And guess what? They were very sweet.

Blueberries are my favorite fruit and there they were—on a dry and rocky hillside in Salem, Missouri, in the midst of a trip I had not wanted to take. And when I looked more closely, I realized that all of the low growing plants around me that I thought were just useless scrub brush were actually blueberry plants, I marveled at the goodness of my God. And then I sprinted back to camp for a Ziploc bag so I could start collecting them.

We spent the better part of that morning pulling the tasty fruit from the scruffy plants. And suddenly my disappointed fingers didn’t feel so weak. My heart was a little less achy and my hopes were a little less dashed. As we climbed up and down hills—bending low to capture the sweetness in a bag, I thanked God for his care and comfort. And my little son, Ephraim—whose name means “God has made me fruitful in the land of my suffering”—helped me to collect the berries even though he doesn’t like to eat them. He delighted to see me glad and I enjoyed his cheerful, exuberating, gesticulations. And when we picked all of the ticks off later and cooled ourselves in the Meramec River, I gave God the praise he deserves. For he made something sweet grown in a barren place that I never would have expected, and brought joy to a hope-depleted heart.

Are you walking a path today that is filled with sharp stones? Does your burden cause the shoulders to sag, the heart to dip low, and the back to ache? Give your disappointment to the One who wants to comfort you and ask him to come near. For if you love him, he has promised to never leave or forsake you. And maybe, if you look closely, you might find a harvest of wild blueberries.

My country neighbor was weighted with many worldly woes and so I showed her the wild blueberries growing close to her cabin. She has lived there for many years and never noticed them before. I also noticed the prickly bushes with bright red berries growing around her small pond and asked if I could pick some for her. I then brought a few pints of blackberries for her to eat or bake with, and then we sat in her air conditioned oasis for a while and talked. I think friendship is good balm for the broken heart and so does she. So when the time came to depart she hugged me and said, “Will you come back soon?” And I nodded enthusiastically. “I have to pick more blueberries.”

On July 9, 2018   /   The Journey   /   Leave a comment