It has been a good year for raspberries. The patch in my backyard is bursting with deep pink, and every day I find more scrumptious mouthfuls to be harvested. Over the past two weeks I have spent hours in my patch, trying to keep up with the abundance. And as I pick, I have been trying to pray. I am searching for God in my raspberry patch.
My search has been fervent, because recently I’ve felt that God is distant. There is this one particular thing I’ve been praying about, asking God to intervene and show me the way, but He has yet to answer me. I have gotten the sense that I need to wait patiently for Him; but the matter is very urgent, and it’s been months since I’ve heard from God.
Today I am picking raspberries after dinner; I need only enough to garnish our dessert. My son waits impatiently beside the patch, stamping his feet and whining for a taste of the succulent berries. “Have patience my love.” I tell him. “You can have as many as you like when we sit for dessert in a few minutes.” Then I duck back into the patch and he loses sight of me for a moment.
I’m picking and I’m praying again: You know, maybe I’ve waited on God long enough now? It’s likely time for me to take matters into my own hands. Afterall, this situation is urgent, and I don’t want to be lazy.
My thoughts are interrupted when my son cries out. I go over to see that he has hurt his finger on the prickly branch of a raspberry bush. His face is scrunched in distaste, and I find his mouth full of pale, sour berries. He looks at me as if I’d been away for an eternity.
I pick a few more berries and head inside, carrying my son in one arm, and my overflowing bowl in the other. It makes me sad to think that he didn’t trust me; I’m wondering if he doubted that I’d share the raspberries I promised. When had I ever not given him a good thing in the right time? I put him in his highchair and pile the best of the berries in front of him. Red juice drips down his lips and fingertips. The raspberries are ripe, and he is glad he waited.
