I examine the underside of my forearm post berry-picking. Ragged.
Even with long sleeves and snake boots, the brambles always seem to get the best of me.
Black raspberries sprawl out among the weeds for as far as I can see. A grateful host to this favored member of the rose family, my backyard delicately draws me day after day.
I consider the thorns. Moreover, I consider the consistent nature of my treasures. I must trespass through the timber to track them, but they always turn up right on time. I pluck the bushes bare of black ones only to find today’s unready reds respectfully ripe tomorrow.
I think of Eden. Why do we not see paradise when it stretches in front of us? I think of manna. How can we desire more; different; better when we’ve been given the very best? But we do. We invite the thorns in our self-centered discontent. We forfeit perfect provision in exchange for poison.
Still, he gives. He gives the thorns. Grace. He gives the wounds in proper portion. The roses will come, but now they must wait. He measures out the pound of cure where prevention has not preceded. He appropriates the pain in order to position the pandering passions of the perpetually imprisioned.
Only a deliberately forgetful father could manage to land a self-consumed exile in a place where both pleasure and pain penetrate in perfected partnership straight to the most permanent places.
The rose family. How could I have not known? Everything worth anything is protected; difficult; laborious; risk-bearing. A wise man once told me I would never obtain a rose without first climbing over the thorns.
Careful. I must be more careful. Painful pricks ever remind me. Regret. Somehow an armful of scratches seems a small price to pay for a basketful of blackberries. I think of Eve. Somehow a body full of brokenness seems just as small a price for an unblemished bride.
Could it be? Could a world full of the fall’s frailties really be so small a price? Could the grand schematic really include both the roses and the thorns on purpose?
It could. And it really is ok. Funny thing about schematics…I never could read them right. Daddy was an engineer. He always knew just what they meant. Sometimes he even wrote them. I am assured in my recollections just how true it is that my divine daddy is still the director of this debonair display.
I examine the underside of my forearm post berry-picking. Ragged.
Even with long sleeves and snake boots, the brambles always seem to get the best of me. But I heard the pastor say that one cannot carry an old rugged cross withoug winning some sharp splinters in the process. It really is ok. I love berries. They remind me of my daddy and my father.
Following love always demands sacrifice, but it is so small a price for such a grand reward. I know there is a barracade of thorns. Reach for the rose anyway.
Everyday Encounters With the Creator 