The Crimson Covered Farm Life

Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead

Picking raspberries

This morning I was fruitful with my time.  I went raspberry picking with my children and my mother-in-love.

We greeted the patch with happiness as we found sweet plump fruit.  The girls set down and got to work, teasing and challenging each other but there was one voice missing.  My son.  He was disgruntled.  He wanted to be at home helping Daddy, doing a man’s job.  Daddy, doesn’t have to pick berries why does this nine year old man have too?  Raspberries are yucky, why would anyone want to eat them? Grumble, grumble.

Smiling, I explain for the 20th time, that if the berries want to be picked they will come off easily off the vine.  No, don’t pick the white ones, they aren’t ripe.  Pick the dark ones, the sweet ones, don’t force the berry off the vine.  Inspiration hit when I challenged this reluctant harvester that his box was to be a gift just for Daddy.
Suddenly, we weren’t just picking berries, we were making a gift for Daddy. Time wore one.

While my mind drifted away, thinking about this Daddy to my children.  My Farmer husband.  The love of my life.  The consequences of being raped as a child follow you into the berry patch of life.  Sometimes, you look like a plump red raspberry ready to be picked but when the harvester comes along, they try to pick you and you cling to your vine for all your worth frantic that you might have to release a part of yourself.

Love is patient, love is kind.

A wise berry picker knows that berries that cling, aren’t sweet yet and they need to leave them alone to be picked another day.

It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud.

A wise berry picker takes their time to look through the whole bush, under every leaf, inspecting along the way for weeds and bugs which seek to harm the delicate plant.

It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.
A wise berry picker doesn’t yank the berries off the stem, demanding what is rightfully theirs, instead they wait for the berry to release itself because then it can release the most sweetness.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
A wise berry picker takes their time, protecting the plant, trusting the plant to provide for their needs.
Love never fails.
As my mind clears back to the present, back to the young boy who wants to be a man, who now is half attempting to pick the best berries for Daddy, I look at him and smile at he gently touches a berry and it slips effortlessly into his hand.  Catching his eye, I tell him, that he is growing up to be a wonderful man and he picks berries just like his Daddy does.  He grows another inch in front of my eye.

Category: Family
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