Growing up on a fairly large cash crop farm in southern Ontario, I lived a remarkably blessed childhood. The fence rows and ditch banks that bordered our fields were full of wild treasures if you knew where to look.
Early each summer came the wild strawberries. They were tiny compared with the strawberries we grew in the garden, but they possessed a sweetness that no supermarket berry has ever managed to imitate. You had to pick a great many of them to fill even a small bowl, but every one was worth the effort.
A few weeks later came raspberry season. Along the edges of the fields grew wild red raspberries and black raspberries in astonishing abundance. A walk along the fence line with a pail often became an expedition that ended with quarts of berries making their way back to the farmhouse.
There was a particular satisfaction in sprinkling those berries over a bowl of morning cereal or spooning them over vanilla ice cream. They were the labour of your own hands. They tasted better because you had found them yourself.
Mind you, raspberry season also left evidence. My forearms usually carried enough scratches from the thorn bushes to convince anyone that I had been engaged in some sort of agricultural combat. I considered those scratches badges of honour, proof that persistence often has delicious rewards.
Even now, whenever I see a patch of wild berries beside a country road, I am carried back to those summer mornings on the family farm. They remain among my happiest memories, and perhaps that is one reason I have always thought that God has something to teach us through wild berries.
There is something wonderfully optimistic about a person who goes looking for wild berries.
It begins with confidence bordering on theological certainty. We march into the woods carrying an empty bucket and the firm conviction that somewhere out there is a patch of berries just waiting to make our breakfast more interesting. We have no guarantee. We simply trust.
Faith often begins exactly there.
Wild berry picking has always struck me as one of God’s quieter classrooms. There are no admission fees, no PowerPoint presentations, and very little applause. Just a patch of raspberry canes or blueberries tucked into the edge of a field, quietly producing fruit because that is simply what they were created to do.
Of course, they do not make it easy.
The berries always seem to grow in places protected by an impressive security system of mosquitoes, blackflies, thistles, poison ivy, and branches that somehow know precisely where your glasses are. You return home with a litre of berries and enough scratches to convince your family you have wrestled a small bear.
This is one of God’s gentler reminders that many worthwhile things require a little inconvenience.
Canadians spend an extraordinary amount of effort cheerfully wandering into mosquito-infested bushes in search of food that is freely available in neat little plastic containers at the grocery store. But somehow the berries taste different when you have earned every handful.
Grace has always had that quality about it.
The sweetest blessings are often the ones that required patience rather than speed.
You cannot hurry wild berries. You learn to look carefully. At first all you see are leaves. Then suddenly your eyes adjust, and everywhere there are little flashes of red, blue, or black hiding beneath the branches. What seemed empty is actually full.
Prayer works much the same way.
Most of us begin by saying, “Lord, I don’t see much happening.”
Then, slowly, our spiritual eyesight changes.
We begin noticing small mercies that were there all along. A friend’s encouraging word. A cool breeze after a hot afternoon. A child laughing. A neighbour waving from across the street. A moment of unexpected peace. They are scattered through the ordinary landscape like berries waiting to be discovered.
The Kingdom of God is rarely loud. It is often hidden just beneath the leaves.
Berry picking also teaches moderation.
The first few berries usually make it into the bucket. The next several mysteriously disappear into the picker. Scientific studies have yet to explain this phenomenon, although experienced berry pickers know it has absolutely nothing to do with self-control and everything to do with quality assurance.
By the time you reach home, your bucket may not contain quite as many berries as originally anticipated, but your soul is noticeably happier.
Perhaps God smiles at this.
Not every blessing needs to be stored away for later. Some are meant simply to be enjoyed while they are fresh.
And then there is the unexpected generosity of nature.
You rarely find just one berry. Where there is one, there are usually many more nearby. God’s creation seems to delight in abundance. A single bush becomes dozens. A handful becomes enough for a pie. A morning’s wander becomes enough to share with neighbours.
That, too, is how grace behaves.
God seldom gives us just enough to survive. More often, God gives enough to share.
Jesus fed crowds. The manna covered the ground. The nets overflowed with fish. The baskets of leftovers were gathered up. The Gospel is remarkably generous.
Perhaps that is why picking wild berries feels almost sacramental.
It invites us to slow down.
To pay attention.
To trust that goodness is often hidden where we least expect it.
To discover that abundance usually reveals itself to those willing to look carefully.
And perhaps, when we return home with purple fingers, scratched arms, and a bowl full of berries, we discover that the greatest harvest was not the fruit we carried back at all.
It was the quieter heart that returned with us.
Thanks be to God for berry patches, patient searching, and all the sweet surprises hidden beneath the leaves.
Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.
Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the quiet lessons hidden in ordinary places. Thank you for berry patches, summer mornings, patient searching, and the joy of small discoveries.
Teach us to slow our hurried pace so that we may notice the gifts you scatter throughout each day. Give us eyes to see your grace hidden beneath the leaves of ordinary life, hearts that delight in sharing your abundance, and spirits that trust that you are always at work, even when we cannot yet see the fruit.
And when life leaves us with a few scratches along the way, remind us that your sweetest blessings are often found by those who keep looking with hope.
May our lives bear the fruit of your love, for the nourishment of the world and the glory of your holy name.
Amen.