August 2025 Newsletter
Rooted in Service: Veterans Find Healing Through the Garden
By Alayne Billingsley, MSW, LCSW
Michael E. DeBakey VA Medical Center – Katy VA Outpatient Clinic
What comes to mind when one hears the word “Veteran”? Most immediately think of someone who has served their country. But for many Veterans, that service doesn’t end with their separation from the military. They carry its impact in their minds and bodies—often in unseen ways—for a lifetime. Their service continues, though it may look different now.
During their military years, Veterans operated on mission. Every breath, decision, and effort was tied to something greater than themselves. Their roles and relationships held deep meaning. After returning to civilian life, however, many face challenges that can lead to isolation and a profound sense of disconnection—from community, from purpose, and even from themselves.
To support Veterans receiving care through the Michael E. DeBakey VA Medical Center—specifically the Katy VA Outpatient Clinic—a Community Gardening group has been established in partnership with The Neighborhood Garden Project in Katy, Texas. This initiative provides a unique volunteer experience designed to restore connection through the rhythms of soil, service, and shared presence.
As a licensed clinical social worker walking alongside these Veterans, I’ve witnessed the transformation that happens when hands touch soil and spirits are given room to breathe. Each week, the participants engage in tending the garden: preparing soil, weeding, planting, fertilizing, harvesting—whatever the day calls for. Through this shared work, they experience more than just productivity. They encounter welcome, camaraderie, and quiet restoration. The Neighborhood Garden Project has become a place where Veterans feel a renewed sense of connection: to the land, to their community, and to one another.
Here’s what several Veterans have shared about the experience:
“I really enjoy the garden. I’ve learned a lot, it’s a good excuse to get out and get some natural Vitamin D. My personal favorite was the presentation on the bees. The fresh produce is also a nice perk. It’s a friendly, light-hearted, and peaceful environment… the garden managers are kind, friendly, and full of information. Definitely a worthwhile milestone on my personal road to healing.”
“There’s a sense of peace in the garden. And it’s fun! I kind of forgot about fun for a while.”
“It’s nice to be a part of something that helps the community. Just getting out and being around like-minded people really helps.”
Alfred Austin once wrote, “The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul.”
Many thanks to The Neighborhood Garden Project’s founder, Josh Singleton, and Garden Manager, Kayla Bellamy, for creating a space where healing doesn’t have to be forced—it simply grows. Their commitment to holding this space with gentleness and purpose has laid out a soul-feast for those who have given so much.
What the Prairie is Teaching Us
In an acre of open prairie at Emmanuel’s second garden site—where we’ve chosen to mow only once a year—Phyla nodiflora (frog fruit) has become one of our most reliable and instructive ground covers. This intentional mowing rhythm allows native grasses and wildflowers to complete their full seasonal cycle, setting seed and contributing to soil health before being cut back. Frog fruit thrives within this minimal-disturbance rhythm, spreading steadily across open patches without needing height or dominance. It fills in the low places, protects bare soil, and weaves itself between slower-growing natives—quietly stabilizing what’s above and nourishing what’s below. Its role in this ecosystem is essential.
Frog fruit’s shallow yet extensive root system stabilizes the upper 6 to 12 inches of soil—exactly where erosion risk is highest in an unmowed, open prairie. As its stolons creep outward, they root at the nodes, forming a dense network that resists runoff and reduces compaction. In areas where other plants might leave gaps, frog fruit fills in. This kind of consistency is what makes it foundational because it adapts and supports.
By rooting in these vulnerable surface layers and spreading through presence, frog fruit helps keep the entire system intact. It conserves moisture, buffers temperature swings, and provides nectar to pollinators well into the hottest months—when other flowering plants have gone dormant. Its flowers may be small, but they meet a real need, especially for butterflies like the Phaon Crescent and Common Buckeye, who also depend on frog fruit as a host plant. In the height of August, when resources are scarce, frog fruit holds the line.
It also creates a protective microclimate at ground level. The shaded soil beneath a frog fruit mat remains significantly cooler and more stable than exposed soil nearby. That microclimate allows microbial life to continue cycling nutrients even in extreme heat. In this way, frog fruit isn’t just conserving what’s visible—it’s sustaining what’s invisible. For us, that’s a powerful reminder that much of the most important work in any system—garden, ecosystem, or community—happens just beneath the surface.
At the Garden Project, we’ve learned that when we yield to creation’s design, resilience begins to emerge. Frog fruit doesn’t need interference. It flourishes in a setting where restraint is practiced and where pressure is not constantly applied. And we’ve seen this same truth unfold in people. Resilient individuals—many of whom have been suppressed or silenced by the systems around them—begin to rise when the pressure to perform is removed. Like frog fruit, their contribution isn’t always obvious at first. But given time, space, and the safety to root at their own pace, they become stabilizers. The ones who quietly carry weight. The ones who help others grow.
At Emmanuel and throughout the garden project, we’ve watched this happen again and again. People who arrive feeling fractured or forgotten slowly begin to take root. And like the creeping stems of frog fruit, their reach begins to extend through consistency, presence, and grounded care. Many of them have lived through drought—of opportunity, of trust, of rest. But in the right conditions, they reemerge not as victims of their past, but as anchors in the present.
In both soil and people, the temptation is often to measure success by what shoots up fastest or blooms the brightest. But we’ve learned to pay attention to what covers ground. What protects what’s underneath. What keeps showing up. Frog fruit has taught us that true restoration starts with stability. And in our garden communities, it’s often the ones who first appear quiet or unsure who end up making the most lasting impact, simply by being present and willing to remain.
This is why TNGP remains committed to following the rhythms of creation, not resisting them. Frog fruit models that posture perfectly. It is never the first thing people notice, but it’s often the reason the prairie holds together. Its low, steady presence teaches us that healing often starts below, at ground level.
Precision in the Garden Air
Each morning around 9:30, the dragonflies begin to rise. Never suddenly, and never early. They wait until the sun has done its work, warming the air enough to activate their flight muscles. Then, one by one, they lift from their resting places—fence lines, trellises, garden posts—and take their positions in the sky. What looks like a calm arrival is actually an internal green light, signaling that it’s time. This rhythm isn’t just a habit; it’s alignment. They don’t guess. They know when they’re ready.
When active, they’re some of the most precise hunters in the natural world. With near-total vision from their compound eyes—each one made up of as many as 30,000 lenses—they can detect even the slightest movement in nearly every direction at once. Their four wings move independently, allowing them to hover like a helicopter, shift directions instantly, and remain locked onto a single target midair. They can fly forward, backward, and sideways, holding a still position even in a breeze. This gives them complete command of the air around them.
But it’s not just their flight that sets them apart—it’s how they hunt. Dragonflies don’t chase aimlessly. They calculate. Studies show they can anticipate where their prey will be—not just where it is—adjusting their speed and angle mid-flight. When they strike, they almost always succeed. Their hunting success rate is over 95%, far surpassing most predators, insect or otherwise. Energy isn’t wasted. Motion isn’t scattered. Their flight reflects rhythm, precision, and timing.
In the garden, this translates into steady and effective pest control. They catch mosquitoes, gnats, flies, and other airborne insects that would otherwise fill the space. At both of our sites, the absence of mosquitoes isn’t coincidental—it’s a result of their daily, faithful work. And the best part is, no one has to ask them to do it. There’s no spraying. No traps. No interference. Just an ecosystem working the way it was created to, with the dragonfly fully engaged in its role.
They move with consistency, not for recognition. They don’t adjust their pace based on who’s watching. Their presence is quiet but deeply effective, driven not by pressure but by design. They operate in full capacity simply by showing up ready each day, as they were formed to be. And in doing so, they quietly maintain balance, stewarding the space around them.
But their effectiveness in the air didn’t begin there. Most of a dragonfly’s life is spent underwater as a nymph, completely out of view. During this stage, which can last months or even years, they are already predators—feeding on mosquito larvae, worms, tadpoles, and even small fish. They don’t drift or wait passively. They stalk, strike, and feed using a specialized jaw that shoots forward like a harpoon. Each meal fuels their growth. Each molt strengthens their body. The same reflexes and accuracy we see in the air are built quietly in the water, over time.
So when they finally break through the surface and enter a new environment, they don’t start from scratch. They carry into the air the precision they’ve spent years practicing below. What we witness each morning isn’t just instinct—it’s the result of slow, hidden preparation. Their ability to fly, hunt, and impact the garden is a direct reflection of how they were formed in secret. And just like in their hunting, they don’t rush their emergence. They rise only when the time is right, when warmth meets readiness.
More Than a Rebuild
Today marks more than a rebuild. It’s the continuation of something sacred—the ongoing story of obedience taking root. What began in August 2022 as bare soil and a handful of raised beds has become a living outpost, planted not through strategy but through surrender. This place didn’t grow because of plans or performance—it grew through presence. And now, as we return to rebuild the first row, we don’t see failure to fix. We see faithfulness to honor. True restoration is never a step back. It’s a sign of what’s worth carrying forward.
Most gardens begin with excitement and fade with exhaustion—not because the idea lacked merit, but because the roots didn’t go deep enough. Many are planted in response to what can be seen, but overlook the ache that can’t be measured. Food may be part of the story, but it’s never the whole. The deeper hunger is harder to name. That’s why so many efforts start strong and burn out. This garden was never built for applause. It was built for presence—slow, steady, and revealed one obedient step at a time.
In most spaces, need is measured by what can be seen—empty shelves, missed meals, unpaid bills. These visible gaps matter, and they deserve to be addressed with urgency and care. But beneath every material lack is often a deeper ache that no resource alone can fix. We call it soul insecurity. It’s not a formal diagnosis, but it’s something we encounter all the time. It’s the internal instability that lingers even when the fridge is full. It’s the restlessness that outlasts relief. It shows up as anxiety, withdrawal, control, perfectionism, chronic busyness, or apathy. It’s the quiet belief that one is not enough, does not belong, or will never be whole. It’s what happens when someone’s sense of worth has never been rooted.
In the garden, soul insecurity surfaces in subtle but revealing ways. A volunteer who resists receiving. A community member who performs to feel valuable. A guest who can’t rest, even in peaceful surroundings. People may arrive craving food or connection, but beneath the request is often something even more sacred—the need to be seen without being measured, welcomed without needing to impress, and invited into a process where slow growth is still celebrated. This is why we tend both soil and soul. Because food insecurity may bring someone to the garden, but soul insecurity is often what keeps them from staying. And if we’re not paying attention, we’ll spend all our time meeting needs without ever forming people. The produce may leave full, but the people remain empty.
We believe transformation begins not just with contribution, but with consecration. A plot of land doesn’t restore a person—but a plot walked with over time, in presence, can become holy ground. That’s why we don’t scale. We root. We don’t serve to solve. We stay to listen. The soil teaches us that what’s beneath is just as vital as what appears above. This garden is not common space. It is sacred ground. It carries no gates, but it carries weight. Tears come. Peace settles. Conversations shift. It’s not ambiance—it’s assignment. The ones who serve here weren’t recruited. They were revealed. They don’t show up for tasks. They show up for trust. And over time, trust builds something no strategy can replace.
Provision hasn’t come from chasing. It’s come from alignment. We’ve walked away from grants that didn’t fit—not out of fear, but faith. And every time, what was needed arrived. Slowly. Quietly. Fully. This is how we’ve learned to move: not by reaction, but by response. We say yes where there is peace. We say no where the whisper tells us wait. There’s no formula, only formation. And what we’ve seen again and again is that what grows slow, grows strong.
This rebuild is not just a repair. It’s a reminder. The first row wasn’t a moment—it was a movement. And movements don’t fade when they’re formed in trust. The wood may wear. The paint may chip. But what was planted in presence keeps growing. What we’re returning to isn’t just a row of garden beds—it’s a living altar. A place where surrender was laid down and something sacred took root. The rebuild simply makes visible what’s already been sustained.
So when we say this isn’t the end, we mean it. The first site is now fully established. Another is nearly complete. And still, the story unfolds. Because we’re not building from urgency. We’re moving from alignment. One step at a time. One row at a time. With clarity in our purpose, stillness in our pace, and soil beneath our feet that still speaks.
We’re building more than a garden. We’re stewarding a place where soul insecurity is met with sacred invitation. Where hunger of every kind is seen. Where those who show up to give often find themselves being undone. Where people begin to believe they were never a problem to fix—but a story still being written. This is the work that continues. And this is why we rebuild.
