July 2025 Newsletter
Welcome a New Co-Steward…
Since encountering The Neighborhood Garden Project a year and a half ago, Lizzie’s life has been deeply transformed. When she prayed to God about the possibility of a garden at her church, Emmanuel Episcopal Church, she never could have imagined what God had in store—for her or for Emmanuel. Today, Emmanuel is home to the second garden site, and Lizzie now serves as the Church Liaison for The Neighborhood Garden Project (TNGP).
Lizzie believes the garden has the capacity to transform communities through the presence it demands, the connections it creates, the wisdom it offers, and the many graces it blooms. She has seen firsthand how, when communities open themselves and the land they steward, they create a space of encounter—not only for neighbors to meet one another, but for people to encounter the Living God in the soil, the plants, and in one another’s hearts.
Through her time with TNGP, Lizzie has grown—both because of the mission and because of the people it brings together. She trusts God more deeply and believes more powerfully than ever that when we come alongside the work God is already doing, miracles can happen. Day by day, she is becoming more fully who God made her to be: totally freed up and ready for new possibilities.
In her role as Church Liaison, Lizzie serves as a community connector, teacher, and bridgekeeper. She walks alongside churches and communities as they discern a call to partner with The Neighborhood Garden Project. With established and future partners, she wonders aloud how the Holy Spirit might be moving, asking questions like: “What ministries and missional communities is God planting?”, “How might a garden transform the way church happens here?” and “How might people and communities be transformed by joining this work?”
Lizzie’s journey in gardening began in 2019 when she joined a community garden while attending seminary. A lifelong lover of the outdoors, she enjoys hiking in the Flathead Valley of Montana, the green mountains of Oahu, the soft-hilled highlands of central Honduras, and the canyons and mountains of northern Alabama. She also loves reading, cooking, practicing yoga, and learning new things. Lizzie is an Episcopal priest who cultivates new communities at the church where she serves.
Patience in the Soil: Our First Jícama Planting
We’ve never grown jícama before. We’ve tasted it—crisp, slightly sweet, almost like a cross between a pear and a water chestnut. But this season, we decided to try something new. We planted it for the first time, curious to see what would happen in our Zone 9 soil.
Jícama thrives in warmth, which makes our climate just right. It needs a long growing season—at least five months of consistent heat—something our garden is more than capable of offering. Still, we knew going in that jícama isn’t a fast crop. This one would take time. And we’ve come to welcome that. The slow growers tend to leave a deeper imprint.
We started our seeds by soaking them overnight. The outer shell is tough, and a little soaking helps awaken what’s inside. We planted them directly into raised beds with loose, well-draining soil, giving them space to do what they’re designed to do: root deep and steady.
Jícama is a legume, but unlike most legumes, we’re not after the pods. In fact, the pods and seeds are toxic. What we’re cultivating is the tuber hidden beneath the surface—a sweet, starchy root that forms slowly over time. You don’t see its growth. You can’t track its progress by the day. But something is happening in the quiet.
That alone feels worth planting.
Above ground, the vines will climb and flower. Below, the real story unfolds—unseen, quiet, patient. And in that way, jícama fits right into our garden’s rhythm. Like many things we care for here, it teaches us that not all fruit grows fast, and not all treasure shows itself early.
Being a legume, jícama also helps fix nitrogen into the soil, partnering with invisible bacteria to enrich the ground. So even if our harvest isn’t perfect, the land will be better for having hosted this experiment. And that, for us, is always enough.
What it offers in return is more than just flavor. Jícama is loaded with vitamin C, making it a strong immune supporter. It’s high in dietary fiber, especially inulin, a prebiotic that feeds beneficial gut bacteria. Low in calories but rich in hydration, jícama is one of those rare plants that refreshes as it nourishes. It’s the kind of food that feels like it came from a place of wisdom.
We’re learning as we go—watching the vines reach, feeling the heat settle in, trusting that what’s unseen is still becoming. If all goes well, by late fall or early winter, we’ll reach into the soil and find what patience has been forming: something sweet, something slow, something that trusted the process underground.
Whether the harvest is small or abundant, we’re already richer for having planted it. And when we take that first crisp bite, we’ll know: what’s good for the soil can also be good for the soul.
Gardener’s Notes: Planting Jícama in Zone 9
Botanical Name: Pachyrhizus erosus
Common Names: Jícama, yam bean
Plant Family: Legume (Fabaceae)
Starting from Seed:
Soak seeds overnight to soften the tough seed coat and encourage germination.
Direct sow after the danger of frost has passed and soil temps reach at least 70°F. In Zone 9, this typically spans from March to May.
Growing Conditions:
Full sun (6–8 hours daily)
Well-draining, loose soil is essential—raised beds or deeply worked garden beds are ideal.
Avoid high nitrogen fertilizer—it encourages foliage, not root growth.
Spacing:
Plant seeds 1 inch deep, spaced 8–12 inches apart in rows 18–24 inches apart.
Provide a trellis or support—jícama vines can grow 10–15 feet long.
Watering:
Water consistently, but don’t over-saturate.
As the plant matures, reduce watering slightly to encourage tuber formation.
Time to Harvest:
Tuber formation begins in late summer and continues through early winter.
Harvest after 5–9 months, usually once vines start to yellow and die back.
Dig gently to avoid damaging the tubers.
Important Safety Tip:
Only the root is edible. Pods, seeds, leaves, and stems are toxic and should not be consumed.
Spirals of Grace: The Ecology of Orchids and Fungi
Ladies’ tresses are a type of wild orchid we’ve started noticing in our pocket prairie. They’re easy to miss at first—small, white flowers that twist up the stem in a spiral. But once you spot them, they sort of stop you in your tracks. There’s something special about them. They don’t show up in just any field. You can’t force them to grow. Their presence means the soil is healthy, that something deep and good is still happening under the surface.
The seeds of ladies’ tresses are tiny—basically dust. They don’t even have food inside them to get started. They can only grow if the right fungi are already in the soil. These fungi wrap around the seed, feed it, and help it get established. Later on, when the orchid is growing, it gives back by sending sugars down into the fungi. Neither can survive alone. They’re completely dependent on each other.
That part hit me. It’s not a transaction—it’s a relationship. Quiet, invisible, and necessary. That’s what healthy soil looks like. That’s what healthy people look like too. We don’t grow well on our own. We grow when there’s trust, mutual care, and the right conditions for both to flourish.
These orchids bloom late in the season, after most of the other wildflowers are done. It’s like they wait for their moment. They’re not showy. But they feed the pollinators that are still around, when other flowers have faded. The way they bloom in a spiral isn’t just pretty—it’s smart. It helps bees move up the plant in a rhythm, one flower at a time. Nothing rushed, nothing wasted.
And I think that’s part of what they’re here to show us. That growth can be slow. That reaching up and growing deep can happen at the same time. That something beautiful and important can come out of places that look forgotten or ordinary.
We only mow that prairie once a year—in late winter—because that gives the native plants time to finish their cycle. If we rushed it, or tried to keep it clean-looking all year, plants like ladies’ tresses wouldn’t make it. Waiting helps them show up. We’re not just maintaining land. We’re giving it space to remember who it is. And we’re trying to listen to what it’s saying in return.
These flowers aren’t loud. But they’re faithful. And that spiral bloom is like a quiet message—something holy is still happening here. Even if it’s small. Even if it takes time.
Mud That Remembers
Crawfish don’t usually get much attention in a garden. Most of the time, you don’t even know they’re there. But after a good rain, they make themselves known. That’s when their little mud towers start popping up—small stacks of wet dirt that look like chimneys. It might just look like a mess, but it’s actually a sign that something healthy is happening below the surface.
Those towers are made from the deeper layers of soil the crawfish is pulling up as it digs. Bit by bit, it’s moving clay and minerals that have been sitting deep down, untouched for who knows how long. By doing that, the crawfish helps mix the soil. It brings nutrients up where roots can reach them. It’s not trying to fix the soil, but that’s what it ends up doing anyway.
When the ground is soft from rain, crawfish get more active. The water helps them breathe and makes digging easier. And during those moments, they move a lot of earth. They also loosen up compacted soil, which helps air and water move through the ground better. It’s like natural tilling, but without the machines or noise.
But crawfish don’t just help the soil. They’re also an important food source. We’ve found owl pellets with crawfish shell pieces inside, and we know raccoons, frogs, turtles, and even skunks eat them too. In the spring, when other animals are raising babies, crawfish provide a lot of the protein they need. So by showing up, they feed the garden in more ways than one.
It’s wild how something so small and mostly hidden can have such a big impact. They remind us that there’s always something going on underground—even if we don’t see it. And often, the work that matters most is being done quietly, without a spotlight. That’s the kind of work we want to honor, too.
