Yesterday, I did what I’ve done since I was a little girl. I opened the cupboard, pulled out a Tupperware container, slipped on my shoes and went to pick blackberries. And for the briefest moment, I was child again.
 
It was a sunny afternoon, and I might as well have had braided pigtails and jelly sandals on, for how my body remembered to squat low and look under leaves for the juiciest berries. I’ve picked blackberries from random roadsides since I could walk. They are one of the joys of summer in the Northwest, and something that I deeply missed when we lived in Hawaii.
 
Sure, we could get blackberries, but they were usually at least $8 a container and would mold practically overnight. Plus, they just never tasted as good as the roadside berries I was used to. The ones that were warm from the sun and practically melted on my tongue.  
 
Our first summer back, I delighted in picking multiple containers of them, not sure what I’d use them for, but amazed at the bounty. Since then, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the magic of blackberry season, which starts well before the first berry can be plucked.
 
In fall and winter, the vines die back, then in the early spring the begin to climb and stretch. Early summer brings white blossoms, which gradually transform into green berries. Those green berries slowly redden and then turn to a purple so deep that it appears black.
 
Our daily walking route passes multiple berry patches, so Erik and I have been watching and waiting for them to be ready for weeks. The first few we tasted in late July made us pucker. But now, now they are perfect. And that brings me back to yesterday.
 
As I dropped berry after berry into my container and watched it fill, I was struck by two things.
 
First, the resilience of these berry plants. They are cut back, stomped on, sprayed with chemicals, and still find a way to thrive. (I do know that most of them are Himalayans, an invasive variety, but I’m not going to get into that today.)
 
What might I learn from watching these berries persist year after year, producing fruit because it’s what they were created to do? They don’t care that they are sometimes unwanted. They don’t care that they are scorned. They just go on doing what they were created to do – producing the fruit they were meant to produce.
 
The second thing these berries are teaching me is to be awed by the beauty — and bounty — of God’s provision.
 
No person works to produce these fruits, and we don’t do anything to deserve them. Yet, they are there, vines heavy with berries. The abundance is so astonishing that even after my container is full, I struggle to turn away. There are still so many good ones. So much deliciousness just waiting to be enjoyed.
 
As I slip a warm sun-warmed berry between my lips, I think back to my childhood and the countless number of buckets, jars, and containers my family and I have collected over the years. Back then, the picking was unhurried, but as soon as we got home, the action would start. Immediately, my mom would start washing the berries and then begin to transform them into  jam, fruit leather, and cobbler. Entire gallons would be tucked into the chest freezer in the garage to be made into pie, more jam, or muffins throughout the year ahead so that we would get to taste summer’s sweetness on the coldest of winter days.
 
Where I live now, there are blackberries everywhere, just like there were in the neighborhood I grew up in.
 
They are abundant and endless.
Resilient and determined.
Just like God’s love.