The sun beat down on my head as I plucked the red berries one by one off the thorny bush. My sticky fingers, stained with the bright, red raspberry juice, grasped feverishly for the berries as I strained to fill the half-empty flat by my feet. I was hot and thirsty, but I hardly noticed; one thought dominated my mind and motivated my every move.

Two weeks earlier, a friend had told me about a horse camp she was planning to attend. As a 12-year-old girl, I couldn't imagine anything more blissful than seven days of riding horses. I begged my parents to let me attend the camp with my friend, but they said they couldn't afford the $200 tuition cost.

I wasn't about to give up my dream of attending horse camp, so I decided I'd earn the money myself. I pored over the want ads, looking for a potential job. I soon realized that there were not many employment opportunities available for 12-year-old girls. But just as I was beginning to lose hope, I spotted an ad requesting berry pickers.

My dad agreed to call the number, and after a short conversation with the woman on the other end of the line, he announced that the job was mine. I could start the next day. That night I couldn't sleep; I kept thinking of all the berries I would pick and all the dollars I would earn to pay for camp.

The next morning, my dad and I arrived at the berry farm at 5:30 a.m. Many of the workers were already spaced along the long rows of raspberry bushes collecting berries. Dad and I approached a heavy-set woman with curly, gray hair who was giving instructions. We introduced ourselves, and she welcomed us with a warm smile that made her eyes krinkle at the edges.

I expected that I would join the other berry pickers but the woman who introduced herself as Juanita Jacobson, explained that my job would be to guard her house from theft. She led me into the kitchen and offered me a stool in the corner. From my perch, I could see the door where the workers entered to use the bathroom. Mrs. Jacobson hurried outside again to organize her army of workers.

I looked around the little house curiously. Creeeeaaaak. My attention was drawn back to the front door. A young man with a mustache entered. This was my first potential thief; I watched him carefully. He walked comfortably into the kitchen, giving me a cheery hello, before opening the refrigerator and rummaging through its contents. I watched wide-eyed, not knowing what to do or say.

Later, I learned that the man was Mrs. Jacobson's son, Roy, and we had a good laugh over my intial shock. Mrs. Jacobson told me Roy was a missionary.

As I guarded the house, I continued dreaming about horse camp. I also got to know Mrs. Jacobson better and was drawn to her loving and generous nature. One day she invited my mom and three younger siblings over in the afternoon for a tea party. My whole family loved her, and we began calling her "Grandma J."

Although I received an hourly wage for watching the house, I still wanted to pick berries. Grandma J finally agreed to let me work in the field with the others, but on frosty mornings she insisted that I come inside and drink a steaming mug of hot chocolate first.

Day after day, I diligently picked berries. I tired of the scratches, the heat and the constant standing, but my eyes remained fixed on my goal. I pictured myself riding beautiful wooded trails on the back of a magnificent horse. Never did I resent the work I was doing. I knew without a doubt the labor was worth the prize.

And when I received my $150 at the end of the summer, I thrilled at my accomplishment. My parents pitched in the remaining money, and I was able to attend the camp. My experience there was well worth the summer I spent working for it.

My summer experience reminds me of the Christian life. Paul said, "I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus" (Ephesians 3:14). The time will soon come when we will enjoy the prize. Let's keep our focus on the goal and delight in the process.