When I was a child I picked blackberries with my Missouri cousins at my family's homestead. Carrying Aunt Ethel's pails and bowls, we ventured into the thick woods where the brambles grew, keeping watch for fool's gold to load down our pockets. Aunt Ethel met us when we returned, hours later, with assorted ointments and soaps for the bites and bugs and itches we harbored. We had little to show for our efforts, except for the purple stains on our mouths and hands. I remember the taste of the sun-warmed berries as they crammed into my mouth, handful by greedy handful. I remember, too, the sting of berry juice in the long scratches on my arms.
I still pick blackberries, since they grow with wild abandon on our property, but I'm more careful now. I don't get scratched often, and the scratches aren't the deep red welts I remember from childhood. Accepting the pain of the scratches for the sweetness of the berries seemed a reasonable trade then. I'm more circumspect now.
I learned caution with regard to my writing ambitions, too. At first I tried hard to make them come true. I gathered my share of rejections. After all, what's a writer without rejections? Then the golden moment came - I held a royalty book contract in my hand. But it fell through. I gave up then. After all, if I didn't try, I couldn't fail again. I wouldn't have to feel the sting of the scratches.
But I tasted no sweetness either. Years went by and still I did not write. I might never have come back to it, had I not finally made time for daily devotions. A suspicion grew in the back of my mind, "I'm not supposed to be writing, now am I?" I pushed the irritating little thought away, but it returned, louder this time. I ignored the idea, but it would not be stilled. To appease it, I gave lip service to writing again, but managed to avoid following through. Several people in church invited me to join a writing group. I put it off. But, one morning, in prayer, I surrendered. Wanting to act on my new-found commitment before I could be tempted to set it aside, I did an Internet search for a writing group to join. I found an interesting one and went to their web site, only to discover I'd located the writing group I'd already been invited to twice!
I no longer have writing ambitions. I have a calling to write, something altogether different. I felt lost and bewildered at the first meeting I attended with my new writing group. Everyone else seemed to have a project or two going. I had no plans except to show up to the monthly meetings. My goal came after several months. I would finish writing the book project I'd abandoned so many years ago. I'd come full circle.
I'm chancing the thorns again but I've learned not to approach the berries with such greed. I can't control the outcome for my book project but I can approach the thorns with more care. I know now that publication should never have been my first goal, but rather telling my story. If I do that well, I've fulfilled my purpose.
