Blueberry Field

06/12/2026

We are currently picking and filling orders, if you have ordered, we will be in touch when your 🫐 blueberries 🫐 are ready for pickup. We will continue to fill orders as long as our supply lasts. You can still place an order by messaging us with quantity desired and a good number to text you back. We will let you know that we received your order when we get it. Thanks Everyone!!

05/10/2026

Now taking pre orders for the 2026 Blueberry Season via messages, include quantity desired and a good phone number to text when your order is ready for pick up. Sold by the freezer gallon bag, ready to use fresh or freeze at only $30 per gallon. Orders must be picked up when they become ready to preserve freshness with the option of us pre-freezing them for you to preserve them until you can get here. Pickups by appointment. Depending on the weather, our season usually runs mid-June through mid-July. First ordered first served until supply ends. To order – send us a message.

04/18/2026

~By Shooting Starr Blueberry Field and inspired by our beautiful Spring blooms.~
`TINY BELLS of CREAM and WHITE`
​Beneath a sky of clouds & lace,
The bushes wake with quiet grace.
​Tiny bells of cream and white,
Dangle in the morning light.
Fragile lanterns, pale and sweet,
Crowding where the branches meet.
​No fruit yet weighs the emerald stem,
But every bloom’s a waxy gem,
A secret kept in petals small,
Of summer’s blue about to fall.

04/06/2026

04/04/2026

Easter in the Blueberry Field
The first warm breath of spring stirred the Blueberry Field, where tender green buds were just beginning to swell on the woody stems. Sunlight filtered through the patchwork of branches, dappling the soft earth below. In a cozy hollow beneath an old, gnarled blueberry bush lived the turtle family: Papa Terrence, Mama Tessa, and their three young ones, Timmy, Tilly, and tiny Toby.
It was Easter weekend, and the air hummed with quiet promise. The young turtles scampered (as much as box turtles can scamper :-)) among the budding bushes, their bright shells gleaming with morning dew.
“Slow down, little ones,” Mama Tessa called gently, her voice warm like sunbaked soil. “Today is a special day. We don’t just hunt for treats. We remember the greatest gift of all.”
Papa Terrence nodded, his old shell etched with years of wisdom. “Yes. Long ago, on a hill far from our quiet field, Jesus died on a cross to take away the sins of the world. But death could not hold Him. On the third day, He rose again, alive forever. That’s why we celebrate Easter. New life, just like these buds waking up after winter.”
The little turtles gathered close, their dark eyes wide with wonder.
“Like the flowers coming back?” asked Tilly, tilting her head.
“Even better,” Papa said. “The flowers remind us. Every spring is a picture of resurrection, life bursting forth where there was once cold and dark.”
That morning, the family prepared a simple Easter celebration right there among the blueberry rows. Mama Tessa had found a few early wildflowers, tiny white blossoms, and arranged them in a circle on a flat stone. Papa carefully placed a smooth, rounded pebble in the center.
“This stone is like the one that sealed the tomb,” he explained. “But on Easter morning, the stone was rolled away. Jesus was gone. He had risen!”
The children took turns gently touching the pebble, imagining the joy of the women who first found the empty tomb. Then, because joy needs to be shared, the family hid small, colorful surprises for the little ones: bright bits of fallen petals, a shiny beetle shell, and a few early blueberries that had survived winter under the leaves (sweet treasures for young turtles).
Timmy, Tilly, and Toby delighted in the hunt, their little legs carrying them from bush to bush with happy determination. They laughed when Toby’s shell got stuck for a moment in a tangle of dry grass and cheered when Tilly discovered a perfect yellow dandelion.

But the heart of their day remained the story.
As the sun climbed higher, the family nestled together under their favorite blueberry bush. Papa Terrence spoke softly of how Jesus had loved the world so much that He gave His life, and how His resurrection brought hope to every creature, turtles, birds, flowers, and people alike. “Because He lives,” Papa said, “we don’t have to fear the long winters of life. New life is coming. Always.”
Mama Tessa led them in a simple song they had learned from the wind and the birds: a quiet melody of praise for the risen King. The children added their own verses, one about budding blueberries, one about warm sunshine on their shells, and one about the joy of being together.
Later, as golden afternoon light bathed the Blueberry Field, the family shared a humble meal of tender greens and the precious winter berries. They talked about what it meant to live as Easter turtles: carrying hope in their hearts the way they carried their shells on their backs, steady, faithful, and ready for whatever season came next.
Tiny Toby yawned and snuggled against Mama’s side. “Jesus is alive,” he murmured sleepily.
“Yes, little one,” Mama whispered, nuzzling him. “He is risen indeed.”
And as the sun began its slow descent, painting the budding blueberry bushes in soft pinks and golds, the woodland box turtle family rested in the peace of the field. Winter was over. Life was awakening. And in their small corner of creation, they celebrated the resurrection with grateful hearts, slow, steady, and full of quiet Easter joy.
He is risen.

03/18/2026

This link was sent to us, but we haven't had a chance to try it yet. If you try it let us know how it turns out.

Ingredients Loaf Cream Cheese Swirl 👩‍🍳 Instructions 🔢 WW Points (approximate) 💡 Tips to keep points LOW

12/23/2025

Thank you to Gayle for sending us the Cinnamon Blueberry French Toast recipe that inspired The Lantern Over the Blueberry Field Adventure. MERRY CHRISTMAS to everyone from the Blueberry Field.

12/23/2025

The Lantern Over the Blueberry Field
A Blueberry Field Adventure

The snow started as a gentle dusting over Aunt Ginny’s Blueberry Field; the bushes silvered with frost under a pewter sky. It was Christmas Eve, and the old farmhouse at the edge of the rows smelled of cinnamon and warm bread. Ginny hummed “O Holy Night” while she worked alone in the kitchen, the only soul on the farm since Uncle Joe had passed.
She pulled her mother’s heavy stoneware bowl from the shelf and began the ritual she loved best: Cinnamon Blueberry French Toast for Christmas morning. Even if no one made it through the storm, the house would still smell like hope.
In the bowl she whisked three large eggs until they were sunshine yellow. She added two cups of whole milk, a quarter cup of sugar, a full teaspoon of ground cinnamon—because Ginny believed you could never have too much cinnamon, a teaspoon of pure vanilla extract, and a generous pinch (about a quarter teaspoon) of salt. She stirred until the cinnamon swirled like tiny galaxies.
She cubed day-old French bread into generous bite-sized pieces—about nine cups total, though she never measured exactly anymore—and greased the crock of her five-quart slow cooker with butter the way her mother had taught her. Half the bread went in, snug as puzzle pieces. She poured half the custard over it, letting it seep into every corner. The rest of the bread followed, then the rest of the custard. She pressed gently with the back of a spoon, so every cube drank deeply, covered the crock with its lid, and slid it into the refrigerator to dream overnight.
While her hands worked, her mind wandered the familiar, painful paths.
Her brother Ron hadn’t spoken to their sister Fran in two years—not since the argument over their parents’ will.
Fran’s oldest boy, Ethan, had stormed out last Christmas after words too sharp to take back.
Youngest niece Lily Jean had stopped coming home altogether after her divorce.
Even Ginny experienced her own private regrets—remarks made impulsively and silences that became increasingly distant over time.
The wind rose. The lights flickered once, twice, then surrendered. Darkness swallowed the farmhouse. Ginny lit candles on the table, their small flames trembling like worried hearts.
Then she remembered.
Up the narrow attic stairs, wrapped in oilcloth on the top shelf, was the old railroad lantern their great-grandfather had carried when he worked the Norfolk and Western line. Family legend insisted it had guided lost travelers home through blizzards worse than this one. “Love finds a wick when everything else fails,” her grandmother used to say.
Ginny climbed the stairs, knees creaking, found the lantern, trimmed the wick, and filled it with oil from the can kept just for this purpose. She struck a match. The flame caught, steady and impossibly bright, casting a golden beam that cut through the attic dust and out the window toward the frozen blueberry field.
She carried it downstairs and set it in the front window where the light spilled across the snow like a promise.
Outside, the storm raged furiously.
Inside, Ginny inserted the cold crock into the slow cooker, plugged it into her small portable power bank and set it to low, and whispered, “Three and a half hours, old friend, and it will be delicious. Do your work.”
She fell asleep in her rocking chair by the woodstove, wrapped in her mother’s quilt.
At 3:17 a.m. the front door opened with a blast of arctic air. Ron and his wife stamped snow from their boots, eyes wide at the lantern’s glow that had appeared like a star on the horizon and refused to dim.
Fran arrived next, alone, tears freezing on her cheeks. “I saw the light from the road,” she said. “I knew it was you. I was forced to leave my car behind in a snowdrift. The blizzard made it impossible to see anything ahead of me, pretty much all I could see was your light and I wasn’t sure I’d make it.”
Ethan came trudging up the road with Lily Jean on his arm—both called home by the same magical beacon. Ethan’s truck had died three miles back, forcing he and Lily Jean to walk the rest of the way to Aunt Ginny’s. Lily Jean clung to the crook of his elbow with her gloved hand, neither trusted the wind not to rip her away. They hadn’t really spoken much in the past two years. Not since the reading of their grandparents’ will that turned into a family battlefield, not since Lily Jean’s husband walked out with half her heart and all their savings, not since Ethan told her she should have seen it coming. They could see the glo of the lantern and were almost to the gate of the blueberry field when they heard the scream.
A single, awful sound, thin as wire, carried on the wind from the Wilders’ place. Ethan knew the voice: Mrs. Wilder, who still baked black walnut cakes for funerals and mailed birthday cards to kids who’d long moved away. He and Lily Jean looked at each other, faces lit with the glo of the lantern they had nearly reached, and without a word they turned toward the sound.
The Wilder barn was on fire. The roof already caved, sparks whipping sideways in the gust. Mr. Wilder was in the yard on his knees, beating the snow with bare hands, howling a name they couldn’t make out over the roar. Inside the ring of fire, they saw what he saw: the dark shape of his oldest and dearest horse, Daisy, still in her stall, rearing against the flames that had already taken half of her mane.
Ethan didn’t think, he just ran. Lily Jean ran too, coats flapping like broken wings. The heat hit them twenty yards out, a living thing that slapped their faces and stole their breath. Ethan grabbed a frozen horse blanket off the fence and tried to get close, but the wind kept shoving him back. Lily Jean found the hydrant, wrestled the ice off the handle and water came out in a weak, defiant arc that flash-froze the moment it touched anything.
They were too late.
Daisy went down screaming, and the sound carved itself into the marrow of Ethan’s bones. Mr. Wilder collapsed forward, forehead pressed into the snow, shoulders shaking so hard Ethan thought the man would come apart. Lily Jean dropped beside him, wrapped her arms around his neck like he was a child, and held on while the barn burned itself into the night.
Ethan helped Mr. Wilder into the house as Mrs. Wilder met them at the door with quilts and something hot that smelled like cloves. The Wilder family's adult daughter, who had returned home for the holiday, stood in the hallway staring absently while holding her cell phone at her side. No one spoke. There didn’t seem to be words big enough.
Time seemed to be frozen, when they finally stepped back into the storm, the lantern at Aunt Ginny’s was still burning as steady as God’s mercy.
Ethan and Lily Jean walked the last stretch in silence until Lily Jean said, voice raw, “I almost didn’t come tonight.”
“I know,” Ethan answered, “me either.”
One by one the family arrived at Aunt Ginny’s, half-frozen, wholly astonished at the lanterns magic to guide them. Ethan pushed open the door with his shoulder, heat and cinnamon blueberries rolled over them like forgiveness. Lilly stepped in beside him, cheeks red, holding on to his arm, not because she was afraid of falling but because she wasn’t letting go.
Aunt Ginny took one look at their faces and knew something terrible had happened. Ethan cleared his throat. “We’ve got to tell you,” he said, voice cracking. “About what happened tonight. About what the Wilder’s have lost and about what we could have lost forever. He looked around at his fractured family gathered around the glo of the lantern’s light. “And about why none of us get to lose each other ever again.”
The house soon filled with voices asking forgiveness and arms giving and receiving hugs before they even took off their coats.
By dawn the storm was spent. The world outside lay silent and new. Inside, the slow cooker clicked off. Ginny lifted the lid, and the scent of cinnamon and warm bread rolled through the rooms like absolution.
She spooned the French toast into her grandmother’s turkey platter while Lily Jean made the blueberry-lemon compote: two cups of frozen blueberries from last summer’s harvest, a quarter cup of sugar, the zest and juice of one lemon, and a pinch of salt. Brought to a gentle boil in a saucepan, then simmered for five minutes until the berries burst and the sauce thickened into purple jewel syrup.
They gathered around the long pine table—scarred by decades of Christmases—and passed the platter. No one spoke for the first few bites; there was only the sound of forks and quiet wonder.
Ron reached for Fran’s hand.
Ethan looked at his mother and said, “I was wrong.”
Lily Jean leaned her head on Ginny’s shoulder and cried without shame.
Outside the kitchen window the snow had stopped. The blueberry canes stood hushed under their white blankets. The old lantern in the window gave one last pulse of gold, then settled into an ordinary glow before fading altogether, its work complete.
Aunt Ginny raised her coffee cup. “Merry Christmas,” she said, voice catching. “The greatest miracle was always right here. Sometimes it just needs a little light to find its way home.”
And in the quiet that followed, every heart knew she was right.
Because the greatest miracle is simply love.

11/27/2025

From the songs of his mother’s heart to the whispers of a faithful God, David’s story begins in quiet devotion. As kingdoms fall into turmoil, a young shepherd is chosen to carry light into darkness. Guided by love, prayer, and the voice that calls him by name, he learns that true greatness is not found in thrones or triumphs, but in listening to the One who never leaves. In theaters December 19.