Bless The Hands

The national flower in full bloom

The past year has been something else. The driving over the road experience was different from the previous time my husband & I drove over the road. For me, it was kind of like seeing an old friend & then remembering why I stopped talking to them. The roads were the same…road work is a constant across the country, but they never seem to finish. I loved seeing the much beloved scenery I was missing, but unfortunately ran into some personal problems I won’t go into.

Bear with me in this post. I’ve been thinking about writing this for some time now. Probably since July 2025 when this event happened. To be honest, I’m not sure how to start it.

I grew up in a semi-religious family. There was a lot of strife regarding church attendance that I’m not going to get into today. Probably never because I guard my spiritual beliefs like a binge eater guards their stash from discovery.

Saying grace before a meal wasn’t expected every time in our household. I remember it mostly from church dinners, family reunions, or when visiting more devoted relatives. One common thread in many of those pre-meal prayers was and is: “Lord, bless the
hands that prepared this meal.” Sometimes the conversation afterward would steer in the direction of just how far the blessing was to stretch; were we asking for blessings for just the cooks, or all the hands it took to even get it into the cook’s hands? I remember some prayers including the farmers, etc. Last July, I had an experience that showed me how short-sighted some of those prayers really were.

One of the hardest parts of driving over the road is the changing of time zones. Hubby and I drove on a 12hr schedule, switching at 2am and 2pm Eastern time. Ish. There’s always a chance we’d have to stop earlier, or switch at a shipper/customer, or later because of any manner of delays and conditions. On the east coast, it can be hard to find a parking spot at 2am and Hubby would either have to keep driving to the next truck stop or we’d have to switch in the fuel island. I also like to take my medications at certain times, so I’d keep my cellphone time set on Eastern. It made sense since that was the time zone we switched according to.

This thought-provoking event took place in California, so even though we were supposed to be there at 8am Pacific it was 11am Eastern. So it was mid-morning for my shift, but actual early morning as I was drawing near to the destination. There was still some lingering light fog.

I knew we were heading to some kind of berry distribution center. I didn’t think too much about it. It wasn’t the first time picking up berries in general, although it was the first time for this location. The other place I’d picked up at before had a different layout, a slightly more urban setting. The staging area for trucks wasn’t even at the warehouse, but down the road and around the block.

This place was a more rural setting. I lost count of how many strawberry fields I passed on my way. It was quite pretty. The early morning light, the thin low fog giving it an almost ethereal feel. Field after field. It was one of the few times I felt at peace with my job.

A blurry photo I took 
after pick up and
Justin took overdriving

Shortly before I made the turn for the warehouse, I noticed the field hands. They stood out in the morning light. Their clothing was colorful in a most pleasing way. They were too far for me to see details of their faces, but I could see they were darker skinned than I am. There was at least one woman, and some shorter ones that could have been youths. It struck me: it was early and here they were hard at work picking strawberries. By hand. Do you know how low strawberry plants grow? That some physically demanding work no matter how old a person is.

I remember picking tomatoes once for a local farm stand when I was growing up. I’m not sure how old I was, somewhere in my teens. I remember some of my siblings being there, and a friend from our youth group. We had no adult supervision like this group of workers did, and we probably should have been better supervised. I don’t know who threw the first tomato, but at some point – tomatoes flew. I hope they were only rotten or damaged tomatoes that we used, that’s what we told the adults who saw us when they asked about it later that day, but it’s been so long I honestly don’t know if that was the truth or if we lied to cover ourselves. I’d like to think we were being honest. Regardless, we never picked in her fields again. We were young and just being kids without supervision; I may have been the oldest, but I often rebelled at having to be the one left in charge of my siblings. We also had many things going on in our homelife that not many were aware of, and sometimes we just wanted to have fun. We weren’t always wise in our timing.

I thought about this comparison for the rest of the morning, and every time since when I see something on Facebook about Immigrants ‘taking our jobs’ and how some places are having trouble finding anyone to pick in their fields recently. Now, I know nothing about the workers I saw. I don’t know if they’re Americans, Immigrants – legal or illegal, or even Indigenous persons. The warehouse workers I interacted with had an accent that make me suspect they were of Mexican descent, no matter what their “legal” status is. And I know they were handpicking strawberries at an hour of the day I prefer being in bed. I know where those berries were heading, and it wasn’t a local farmstand. We drove those berries across states, across time zones, to an Aldi distribution center. After, I think it is safe to assume that they ended up on Adli stores shelves.

Now this might sound weird, but I’ve never once given any thought as to how strawberries end up on the grocery store shelves. I never once thought that they might have been handpicked by workers. There might be some places where they are harvested by machine, but typically the preferred method is handpicking since machines can’t tell the difference between ripe and still ripening fruit, and can also damage them. Because of this, from my brief research, strawberries picked by machines are used mostly for jams and jellies.

I was struck with deep gratitude for those workers. I love strawberries, but I would not want to pick them commercially. Maybe when I was younger, I would have been willing to but given I have one knee that is bone on bone, I’m not even sure I could physically do the job. I am grateful for the strawberry pickers who gave me a product to haul, enabling me to also have a job. I am grateful for them picking food for me to eat later.

I think some people in our country live in a bubble and do not appreciate workers of this type half as much as they should. I think they have a narrow view of the world in general. I wish they could see the world, at least the Unites States, through my perspective. I have driven or ridden through 46 or 47 of the 48 continental states (I’m not 100% sure about Rhode Island). One thing I’ve learned is we are far more alike than we are different. I could drive through a small town in Nebraska and if I didn’t know where I was at, I’d have thought I was still in Pennsylvania even though there aren’t mountains. I have seen people in all states that I would swear were related to someone I knew from back home. I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve run into in my travels that know where I’m from or someone who lives there too.

We are all connected. From the fieldhand who picks the strawberry to the warehouse workers who load the berries onto refrigerated trailers for truckers to drive to another warehouse for workers to send them to stores where yet another person shelves them for shoppers to buy. For you to buy and either eat yourself, or to prepare them for others. Perhaps in a fruit salad, or a strawberry shortcake.

A fruit salad I made at some time

We need each other. For this cycle of products, this cycle of sustenance, this cycle of survival, this cycle of life.

The next time you have a strawberry, I hope you think of the worker who picked them. I hope you are grateful for them and their hard work. You won’t know them, but they are someone of value and great worth regardless of the color of their skin or their citizenship status. Even if you’re allergic to strawberries and can’t eat them, I hope you can still be grateful for people who are an integral part of our nation.

I’m not going to lie, I’m a little afraid to share this. Immigrants, legal or not, are a hot topic right now and I worry about vitriol from both strangers and friends. I’m sure there are many pieces to this that I don’t understand, not because I’m stupid but because my education has been limited. But I stand behind what I’ve written, based on my experiences. I too have value and worth, as does my perspective.

Until next time, I bid you adieu!

©Robin Janney