Well, the short of it is, it took me 3 days to finally get water to properly penetrate into that seedbed! It was a mess - I've never had such a problem before (well, I have, but I felt like a complete novice who had to learn his lesson all over again)! In the process of trying to get water to penetrate from the surface down I totally messed up the (very small and hard to see) seeds which were planted close to the surface, undoubtedly sloshing some of them over the side with the water that was only pooling on the surface and refusing to soak into the soil.
Why this attempt to describe one gardener's struggle with potting soil? Because I see in it such an amazing picture of what must happen within the human soul - within my own heart - when there has been such a lack of moisture. When the moisture comes that we really need, we end up pushing it away. The very thing we need we are unable to absorb. Can you think of a worse tragedy then this? Yet I believe this is precisely the condition that I find myself in (and I suspect I'm not alone in this) . I was given a prophetic word years ago which said that my heart was like the gates of Jericho just before the Israelites conquered it - shut up tight. Ouch! Fortunately that word went on to give me hope that this condition would change, but I've pondered on the meaning of it for a long time. Frankly, it's been a mystery to me that I've struggled to understand. But this simple illustration from my gardening experience offers a clue to understanding and beginning to unravel this mystery.
Another clue to solving this riddle comes in the form of a sonnet by John Donne.
XIV.
As yet but knock ; breathe, shine, and seek to mend ;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy ;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Source:
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 165.