A Heart Garden

Writer tells of an old woman who said: “My heart is a little garden, and God is planting flowers there.” Every heart should be a little garden. We should keep it always clear of weeds and full of sweet and beautiful plants and flowers. A garden spot anywhere is not only a thing of beauty but is also a blessing to all who see it. Even a window-box filled with its bright color is a benediction. God means that we shall make our lives so beautiful that they will redeem one spot of the world from dreariness and transform it into loveliness. The picture of a garden runs through all the Bible. The first home of the human race was a garden. Jesus was buried in a garden. When He arose the first Easter morning spring flowers were blooming all about His a ieart (KarDen

grave, filling the air with fragrance. There is a legend, too, that as He walked away from the open tomb lilies sprang up in the path on which His feet walked. It is true, at least, that wherever His feet have walked all these centuries, flowers of joy, of hope, of peace, of life, of love have grown. He is changing the wilderness into a garden of roses. The life of each one is a little garden which he is to dress and keep. In an ancient Bible song the story of such a garden is told. It is not some other one’s garden we are to keep, but our own. Some of us find it easier to look after the gardens of our neighbors than our own little patch. But that is not our duty.

^’ How fared thy garden-plot, dear heart, While thou safst on the judgment-seat? Who watered thy roses and trained thy vines. And kept them from careless feet?^^

‘’Nay, that is saddest of all to me, — That is saddest of all. My vines are trailing, my roses are parched, My lilies droop and fall.”

Go hack to thy garden-plot, dear heart; Go hack till the evening jails, And hind thy lilies and trahi thy vines, Till for thee the Master calls.

“Go make thy garden fair as thou canst; Thou workest never alone; Perchance he whose plot is next to thine Will see it, and mend his own.’’

The ancient song further represents this garden as not at its best. Then there is a prayer to the winds that they may come with their awakening breath, to blow upon it, to call out its beauty and sweetness. Without overspiritualizing, this prayer may be taken to suggest what is needed in very many lives.

“Awake, 0 north wind; and come, thou soidh; Blow upon my garden that the spices thereof may flow otd.’’

The suggestion is that the trees, plants, and flowers in the garden are still lying in the clasp of winter. We know how it is just before spring comes. The trees are bare, but there are thousands of buds only waiting for [5] the breath of the warm sunshine to make them burst into living blossom. The rose bushes are bare and briery and without beauty, but it needs only spring’s genial air and gentle rains to clothe them in marvellous loveliness. The fields are dreary and without life, but there are millions of green roots waiting only for the wooing of spring skies to make them rush up into greenness and verdure. It is such a picture as this that is suggested in the prayer to the winds: “Awake, ye winds, and blow upon this wintry scene, to call out the beauty, the fragrance, the life.” Is this not also a true picture of many of our lives? Are not our gifts and powers lying in unopened buds? Are we living at our best? Are our lives as beautiful as they might be? Are we as useful, as thoughtful, as helpful to others, as obliging and kind, as we could be? Is there not need that we pray this prayer continually: “Awake, O winds of God, and blow upon the winter-locked garden of my heart that the chilled life in it may flow out”?

a l$tavt mvntn

The prayer suggests that only the Spirit of God can call out the gifts and powers of our lives. We cannot wake up the love for others in our hearts without the divine inspiration. When Henry Martyn reached India he wrote in his journal, “I desire to bum out for my God.” Such a passion can be kindled only by the divine breath. The beautiful qualities of Christian character are not mere natural graces and virtues; they are spoken of in the Scriptures as fruits of the Spirit. If our garden is to come to its true beauty, our prayer must be that the winds of God may awake and blow upon it. Nothing will bring out the life of the gardens and fields after the chill winter but the wannth of the sun. Nothing but the love of God will woo out the spiritual powers and possibilities within us. Even the disciples of Christ, after being with Him for three years, were not ready for service until the wind of Heaven blew upon them on the day of Pentecost.

Two winds are called upon here, or rather one

wdnd in two kinds of effect:” Awake, O north a ieatt (Bavun

wind, and come, thou south.” The chill north wind is needed to clear and purify the air. In spiritual life there is need also for the north wind to prepare for the breath of the south wind. There is the north wind of conviction. We must become conscious of our sinfulness and realize our need of Christ before we are ready to turn to Him. David became penitent and said, “I have sinned,” and Nathan said to him, “The Lord hath also put away thy sin.” A Jewish tradition relates that at the place where David wept a day and a night over his great sin, an incense tree sprang up. Incense is the emblem of praise. The joy of salvation comes out of the sorrow of penitence. Where the volcanic dust from Mount Pelee settled after the terrible eruption, sweet flowers soon began to bloom. The ashes from great calamities make fruitful soil in human lives in which the graces and virtues grow luxuriantly. The north wind of conviction prepares the air for noble life and strong character.

Then there is also the north wind of sorrow. [8] a l$tavt rnvtitn

We dread sorrow, but we have the Master’s word that it is those who mourn that are blessed. Christ’s marvellous comfort cannot come save where sorrow has been. The north wind must blow with its keen, cleansing blast before the south wind can bring its blessing of love and fruitfulness. When Lord Houghton had lost his wife, Tennyson wrote him this letter: “I was the other day present at a funeral, and one of the chief mourners reached me her hand silently, over the grave, and I as silently gave her mine. No words were possible. And this little note that can do really nothing to help you in your great sorrow is just such a reaching of the hand to you, my old college comrade of more than forty years’ standing, to show you that I am thinking of you.”

Keep reading