Why is it that we hate the work of the gardener, though we love the taste of fruit? God, the gardener of faith, moves us into the wilderness at times. We despise time in the desert. It makes us wanderers, having to trust God. We—drinking our own ideas—love our spiritual life to be like a perpetual flowering garden, our prayers full of fruit, and being surrounded by the green of spring. Yet, like a brooding Dane, we find our prayer not to be the way we wanted it, but at times landing on dry rocky soil, to sting us with doubt, and to make our eyes burning with tears. Time, change and process choke out our ideas of God, choke out our fantasies about God, and makes us look into the mirror. Is it more noble to suffer these darts of dryness? To face our weakness? Or do we run headfirst into the sea of our outragous illusions? Prayer in the lifeless part if life draws us toward God, even as we feel alone. Like ground be prepared for planting, our assumptions get broken by a plow of truth. Weeds need to be pulled. Lving water needs to be added. The seeds of love need to crack and die. This is when we run away from prayer, and when we need prayer the most. The garden will return with new fruit, for it has been promised. The soil, dry and seemly lifeless, will return to green. Worms will break down rock, and a mustered seed will grow. Such is the poetry of prayer born in the trust of God.
Lord of my strength, break the soil
of my hard heart and make my feet
as springs on a deer. Leave me not
in the shadows of the cliffs,
but let my heart leap into tops
of mountains. Let me be with the people,
and be with me in my loneliness,
making your love flow through
the pours of my skin to who have breath.