It’s blackberry season. Where I live, anyway, it’s blackberry season. Maybe it is where you live, too.

The experts in such matters tell us blackberries are not actually berries but are fruit. Nobody really cares.

When one tastes the sweet, slightly tart fruits made up of seeds and juicy ovules, the immediate impulse has nothing to do with discussing their nomenclature or species,  but only with devouring as many as possible.

However, I do have a problem with blackberries. They say the best ones you’ll eat are the ones you pick yourself. They say. And, that’s why I’m not happy today.

Did you know the word bramble is used specifically to describe blackberries? You know what a bramble is, don’t you? It’s an impenetrable thicket.

Yeah. Impenetrable.

There’s a reason they use the terms bramble and impenetrable when talking about blackberries. Blackberries have thorns. Oh, those experts (the same ones who tell you it’s not really a berry) will tell you they’re not really thorns but are prickles. Never mind that those prickles can cut through even denim material with ease. They’re thorns.

Thorns. Berries.

Berries. Thorns.

Thorns. That’s what I see.

I know the berries are there. I know they’re good. I’ve tasted them. I’ve poured them like candy over my ice cream. I’ve eaten the cobbler and the pie.

Pure delight.

But I’ve sucked the blood from the cuts on my hand, too.

Pain.

I see thorns.

I don’t think I’ll pick blackberries today.

So, here I stand in the middle of the briar patch—you know, that’s what a bramble is, don’t you? Here I stand in the middle of the briar patch, looking at the thorns, and I’m hungry. Oh sure, there are blackberries all around, but oh—the thorns!

You’re laughing at me again, aren’t you? Here I stand, all dejected, and you’re laughing at me. Or, perhaps not.

Perhaps, the thorns have caught your attention, as well. You’ve been pricked more than a few times. The delectable blackberries you knew were yours for the picking surround you, but all you see are the hateful thorns.

May I say two words? Just two?

Br’er Rabbit.

Yes, you read that right. Br’er Rabbit.  That long-eared scoundrel from the pages of Uncle Remus. Or, if you prefer, from the frames of Disney’s Song of the South.

Br’er Rabbit. Born and bred in the briar patch.

Me, too. Br’er Paul. Born and bred. In the briar patch.

Perhaps, you too.

Our old friend, Job, it was who said the words: Every human born of a woman lives a short life, and even that will be full of trouble. (Job 14:1 ~ my paraphrase)

If that’s not enough, our Savior said it this way: While you walk around this spinning ball of dirt and water, you will have problems. Don’t let it get you down; I have already contended with the thorns and come out on top. (John 16:33 ~ my paraphrase)

We were all, every one of us, born and bred in the briar patch. There are no exceptions. For all of us, there are successes and failures, joys and sorrows, mountaintops and valleys.

We pick the delicious fruit. We lick our wounds.

We rejoice.  We weep.

We give thanks to a good and generous God, as we walk toward our destination.

And, when we stumble in the brambles and the dark of night, we remember the light He promised would light our way. Again and again, we test its power against the darkness. Again and again, there is no contest.

Your words are a lamp to walk by, a bright light to illuminate the path ahead. (Psalm 119:105 ~ my paraphrase)

Together, we walk. Through the briar patch.

Eating the fruit along the way.

And, it’s good. In spite of the thorns, it’s good.

 

Even when I walk
  through the darkest valley,
I will not be afraid,
  for you are close beside me.
Your rod and your staff
  protect and comfort me.
(Psalm 23:4 ~ NLT)

From this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
(from Henry IV ~ William Shakespeare)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2019. All Rights Reserved.