An Adventure in Trust

It was a perfect day for blackberry picking. A friend of mine with three of her foster children and I were picking berries in the little ditch just over the railroad tracks. It was the ideal playpen, with prickly blackberry vines forming a wall on each side of us and cool water gurgling at our feet.

“Look how many berries I have,” said Phyllis. “My bucket almost has the bottom covered!”

“Good job. Keep picking,” I replied.

“Loot at mine, Mih A-man-a.” Lucy held up her bucket for me to see. Two lonely berries sat at the bottom of the little tin pail.

“I think you can pick a lot more berries,” I encouraged her. “You have small hands for reaching into the prickly bushes.” Four-year-old Lucy was always good at intricate work when she set her mind to it.

“Come on, Miss Amanda,” her older sister, Lisa, called to me from the next clump of bushes. “Let’s go down farther.”

Soon I was leading an exploration party of three down the ditch. From prior experience with the girls I had come to think of Phyllis as more of the “girly girl” out of the bunch. At almost six, she tended to be more timid than outgoing, nine-year-old Lisa and mischievous little Lucy. But today’s experiences would surprise me.

“Let’s see who can fill up their pail first!” I said, stopping where some clusters hung within easy reach. For a moment all hands went to picking.

“I can’t find any berries,” Lisa soon said.

“Look at all the ones you have missed.” I showed her some berries hiding beneath the leaves. Most of the berries were too high to reach, though, so we headed on.

“If you can pick some more berries yourself, then I will pick a few to put in your pails,” I offered the girls. We continued wading down the knee-deep stream, picking as we went. But in spite of their efforts, more berries seemed to bounce out of their pails than were put in. And the remaining fruit was periodically treated to a drenching of ditch-water. They were having fun, though, and it was an experience that only happens once a year.

“I see the end of the ditch!” called Lisa. I turned to see where she was pointing. A dense overhang of grass blocked the way up ahead. I realized that, at Lisa’s height, she couldn’t see over the top or through it.

“Oh, no,” I told her. “That’s just some grass hanging over the water. I can see more of the stream over the top of it. Come on!” As we neared the overhang, the children hesitated.

“You can go ahead,” said Phyllis.

“Let’s go in order of age. I’ll be first,” said Lisa, trying to be brave.

“It’s really not all that bad, girls,” I said. “It’s just some grass that we have to get through. That means that we are real explorers! I don’t think anyone has been down this far this year. Besides, it doesn’t even have pricklies,” I pointed out. “It’s just grass. Just push it back with your arms.”

I set the example, with Lisa, Phyllis and Lucy just behind. As we broke though to the other side, I almost bumped into some brambles that were hanging in the stream. Holding onto the vines between the thorns, I showed the girls how to lift them out of the way so we could get underneath.

We were a short distance from the grass barrier when I noticed an open spot on the left bank. I knew there was a large pasture on the other side where we could possibly spot some cows. “Let’s climb up here on this grassy spot,” I called.

Phyllis scrambled up the bank like a monkey. Lisa was next. “I can’t get up,” she complained.

“Just hold onto the grass near the roots and pull yourself up.” I knew it really wasn’t that hard, but after trying a little, she still insisted that she couldn’t do it. Patiently I gave her a hand, and then helped Lucy scramble up the bank. One at a time, I lifted the girls so they could see the cows.

“Let’s go on,” I said, and slid down the grassy bank into the water with a splash! Phyllis was at my heels. But Lisa and Lucy both wanted help to get down. It amazed me how Phyllis seemed so adventurous while the other two were more wary.

A few minutes later Phyllis tugged at my arm. “I want to go back to Mommy,” she said.

“That’s fine. Can you do it yourself?” I asked.

She nodded. I watched her as she splashed up stream. When she came to the brambles, she moved them carefully aside just as I had shown her. Bravely she started to plow through the thatch of grass. In the middle she stopped, unsure of whether to go forward or turn back.

“You’re almost through,” I called to her. “Keep going!” With renewed vigor she pushed at the grass and disappeared as it swished into place behind her.

Lucy, Lisa, and I continued down the ditch. After a while I heard Phyllis shouting from behind us, “Wait for me!” We waited until she came splashing up beside us.

It wasn’t long before Lucy began struggling back upstream. “Where are you going, Lucy?” I called.

“To Mommy,” she called back.

From where we were, I could still see the overhang and brambles upstream. “I’m going to watch to make sure she can get back through that big clump of grass,” I said to the others. Lucy picked her way though the brambles and began to push at the grass. When she found herself in the middle, she began to panic and turned around.

Again I called, “You’re almost through. Keep going!” But my advice fell on deaf ears.

“I can’t!” she sobbed.

“I will go and show her how,” offered little Phyllis.

After seeing Lucy safely through, we continued on our exploration. We found an opening up the high bank on our right. “Let’s get out here and walk back along the tracks,” I suggested. Phyllis and Lisa followed me up the bank and onto the gravel railroad grade. Soon we met up with the rest of the pickers.

As we picked blackberries I kept a sharp ear for a train whistle. Finally I heard it. I looked around for the children. Lucy was with some other adults, but I was in charge of Lisa and Phyllis. My older sister had already lifted Phyllis over some blackberry bushes into a small clearing farther from the tracks. I, too, was able to jump over the blackberry bushes, but Lisa couldn’t reach that far and I couldn’t lift her. I knew she would be fine, since she was only a few feet from Phyllis and I.

“Don’t be scared. We are safe,” I told them. “It will just be noisy, but the train can’t hurt us where we are. This is going to be fun!” I held Lisa’s hand over the brambles and smiled at her.

We were quite a way from the tracks, but still close enough to feel the rush of air from the train and hear its loud whistle. Lisa begin to cry. I tried to talk to her but my voice was whipped away with the wind. I stood quietly and slowly rubbed her little arm, but she continued to cry. I glanced over to see how Phyllis was doing. She was standing just behind me and was grinning with her hands firmly over her ears.

With a whoosh and rumble, the last train car rushed by. Lisa dried her tears. “That was fun, wasn’t it?” I said, cheerfully. “It wasn’t really that scary, since we were safe.” Phyllis agreed, but Lisa wasn’t convinced.

As we returned to the house with our berries, I thought back over the adventures of the morning. What had made Phyllis a brave conqueror, and the others rather fearful followers? Phyllis trusted that what I said was true. She trusted that there was a way through the grassy overhang, even though she couldn’t see it. She trusted that it was safe to climb up the bank, even though she couldn’t see to the top, and that she was safe, although the train howled and blew and seemed scary. She even had enough trust to share, to help someone else. Lisa and Lucy only trusted me as long as it looked safe in their eyes, too—as long as they could see a way.

And I had to think, do I have real trust in God, like Phyllis had in me? Do I trust Him when I can’t see the end and He says “You’re almost through, keep going”? Can I trust Him with a smile when life seems scary? Or does my trust last just as far as I can see?