FACE TO FACE

Autumn Burrs

Keith Bodger

Back in the early 70s, for my peers and I, the fashion choice during autumn was a bush jacket. All the boys wore bush jackets. In northern Ontario, Canada, the bush was the forests surrounding the town in which you lived. We didn’t go out in the forest or out in the woods, we went out in the bush, and we wore bush jackets.

Bush jackets looked like flannel. They had a plaid pattern like flannel but were thicker than a flannel shirt. They were about a half-inch thick. Thick enough to keep you warm. It’s what you wore on cold autumn days in October and November. The threads were also thicker than cotton flannel threads. They were more like a wiry nylon filament.

Throughout North America is an invasive species called Burdock (genus Cousinia). Burdock has very broad leaves and I’ve never really noticed it during summer. But in the autumn, when the leaves fall, the Burdock seeds (also called burrs) remain on the plant. The seeds are brown and about the diameter of a dime but are spherical. They have dozens of little hooks on them that readily attach to fabric (The Burdock tree brings Genesis 3:18 to life: “thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you.”) The Burdock seed was the inspiration for the invention of Velcro. In some languages, burdock and Velcro are the same word. Because of the hooks, Burdock seeds spread primarily through hooking onto passing animals.

As a kid, passing by these plants, the burdock seeds easily grabbed onto my bush jacket. They also found other soft fabrics, such as socks. In summer, the burrs were not fully developed, and you could brush against the leaves with no problems. But, in autumn, the burrs were fully open and would glom onto your clothing. You didn’t notice them when you hiked but when you got home, and took off your jacket, the burrs would poke your skin. Not penetrate enough to bleed, but enough to get your painful attention. Sometimes your friends or family would have to pull off the burrs that you didn’t know you had or couldn’t reach. You would have to spend time, not hours, but certainly many minutes pulling off the burrs. The larger clumps were easier to remove. It could be a group of burrs hooked onto one another. But they always left smaller hooks that became well embedded into the fabric. In a landfill somewhere, there is my old bush jacket with little burr hooks still embedded.

My sin is like an autumn burr. I brush past the sin, and it seemingly clings to me, effortlessly. Sometimes I don’t know it’s clinging to me. I could wander around for years not knowing I have this sinful clump attached to me. Others might see it or, they might not. They might feel the pain when I cannot. When I notice it, I can spend time pulling off the clumps as I attempt to stop that sin. But sometimes there’s that little bit that remains, still poking me every now and again. Sometimes I notice it when I cross my arms and the unseen burr under my arm touches the back of my hand. Or, when I get home and cross my feet on the ottoman, I can feel that burr clump at my heel. Fortunately, we may have friends or family who can lovingly point out the burrs that cling. More often than not, I suspect, we turn a blind eye to those burrs. Perhaps we hope a pastor will notice it and point it out, or it will go away on its own.

It won’t, but the good news is that when I enter heaven, I’ll be burr-free. My clothing will no longer be a plaid bush jacket but a white garment without stain or blemish (Revelation 3:4: “they will walk with me in white, for they are worthy” and Revelation 19:8: “it was granted her to clothe herself with fine linen, bright and pure”).

The lingering jabs of a remnant hook will no longer aggravate me or the ones around me. I look forward to that day. Until then, if I have a clump of autumnal burs on me, please let me know (gently).