Blackberry Picking with Myself

Saturday evening I slipped out my front door while everyone was pre-occupied. I listened to conference talks while I walked to a part of my neighborhood I spotted earlier on my run. I squeezed through the fence post and past a wild bush and I arrived. It was time to pick some blackberries.

This is a really terrible picture, but the view was a beautiful little valley of green. The getaway was so peaceful as I picked the plump blackberries. The afternoon was meeting its sunset and the weather was warm with a light breeze. The air smelled like my mom canning blackberry syrup every summer growing up. I meant to only pick a cup or two so I could make a dessert, but there was something so satisfying and addicting about berry-picking, I stayed longer than I anticipated. It was nice to have that thirty minutes to myself.  I reflected on how God had watched over our family in so many tender, specific ways that day, and how I need to be better at recognizing His hand every day. I thought about how excited and surprised John was going to be when I brought home a whole bowl of blackberries. I reminisced blackberry picking with my mom every summer. We would go down the gravel road by the Finley's house with our large popcorn bowls. It was always fun for about five minutes...then it became slave labor (in my 8 year old mind.) We would stain our fingers from picking and stain our shirts from throwing berries at each other. Then for days our house would smell like black berries as my mom canned everything you could possibly can- jams, pie filling, syrups. It was just another yearly tradition I could expect as a kid, but as an adult the magic of it all settles on me in a pleasant way. In a way this time to myself connected me to the comfort of my mom's love, in turn it brought me a more abiding love for my own children. 

All from picking blackberries.

We made milkshakes that night, and a blackberry crisp on Sunday! So worth it.