How the Garden Ruined Me

It Wasn’t About Food. It Was About Becoming.

By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project

I didn’t realize it at the time, but when my uncle invited me into his garden at age 15, he wasn’t just teaching me how to garden—he was setting something in motion that would change everything. I thought I was just helping out and might learn something. I had no idea it would shape how I live, how I lead, and how I walk with God.

Over the next twenty years, the garden ruined me—in the best way. It ruined my appetite for shortcuts. It ruined my tolerance for noise. It made it hard to sit through meetings that go nowhere or chase results that don’t last. It changed how I see growth, people, and purpose.

It also rewired how I understand relationships—because in the garden, there are no isolated parts. Everything is connected. Roots intertwine, nutrients are shared, and boundaries only exist to protect purpose, not to keep things apart. That’s the opposite of what I see in much of the professional nonprofit world, where titles create distance, formality replaces fellowship, and relational boundaries—meant to protect—often isolate.

That kind of compartmentalization is what keeps many organizations from the very provision they’re praying for. The garden showed me a different way: one rooted in connection, humility, and shared life. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it. You start to question what you used to call structure, and realize the Kingdom works more like an ecosystem—where nothing thrives alone.

The garden didn’t give me a strategy. It gave me a posture. One that’s slower, more aware, and more willing to wait for what’s real. It showed me how to be faithful when no one’s watching. And it reminded me again and again—this was never about growing food. It was about becoming.

The seasons reinforced that truth. I learned to honor each one, not just the visible fruit-bearing moments, but the pruning, the resting, the breaking. The garden taught me to stop expecting summer in the middle of winter. That revelation now guides how I walk with people. Every life has its own season, and my role isn’t to fix or force—it’s to tend with discernment, to notice what’s ready and what still needs time.

Compost became one of my first real teachers. Death, decay, loss—none of it is wasted in the Kingdom. What breaks down actually becomes the source of new life. That truth sank deep over the years. I stopped fearing endings. I stopped resisting the parts of the process that felt like failure. The garden showed me that surrender leads to fruit, and that in God’s hands, nothing offered is ever in vain.

I also learned that strength comes through diversity. Healthy gardens aren’t clean-cut and uniform. They’re wild, layered, and full of life that doesn’t always look like it belongs together. That opened my eyes to how God designed people. We’re not meant to be the same. We’re meant to complement one another—different giftings, rhythms, and stories working in harmony like companion plants in the soil.

I came to accept that pests will come. Aphids, beetles, hornworms—they’re inevitable. But panic never solved anything. I started listening instead. Most of the time, the pests were just symptoms of something deeper—imbalances in the ecosystem. That same principle applies in this work. The resistance or breakdowns I face aren’t always problems to eliminate. They’re invitations to notice what’s been ignored or misaligned.

Even the tools taught me something. I’d wear a sprayer on my back, and people would assume I was spraying poison. But I knew what was in it—sometimes nourishment, sometimes restoration. The tool hadn’t changed. Just the content and intention behind it. That lesson has followed me into leadership. Am I using what I carry to control, or to cultivate? Am I bringing death or life?

Reading soil became second nature. Not just seeing it, but understanding its condition. The way it crumbles, the way it smells, the way it feels—it all speaks. Soil doesn’t lie. That skill translated to how I discern people now. Words can mask, but the “soil” of someone’s life tells the truth. It’s not about judgment. It’s about growing what’s real. You can’t grow anything lasting without knowing what you’re working with.

What I’ve come to love most are the small things. The quiet breakthroughs. The seed breaking open underground. The sprout that pushes through after weeks of silence. The Kingdom shows up like that—hidden, subtle, but powerful. I used to overlook those signs. Now I trust them completely. They’re always enough.

I’ve also learned that nothing is really mine. Not the garden. Not this mission. Not the people who walk with us. I’ve learned to hold everything open handedly while still stewarding it faithfully. That posture of care without control has kept me grounded.

And through it all, I’ve come to believe that presence is the real power. Plants respond to it. People do too. You just need to show up. To be consistent. To reflect the heart of the Father. That’s where transformation happens. Not in programs. Not in pressure. But in faithful, loving presence.

But maybe the deepest thing the garden did was interrupt the rhythm I thought I had to live by. While I worked warehouse jobs and other labor-heavy roles just to make ends meet, I kept a garden going—sometimes in the yard, sometimes in a container on a balcony. I didn’t know it then, but the garden was doing more than growing food. It was drawing me into something slower, more rooted, and more honest. I was surrounded by a culture that measured worth by output, speed, and busyness. But the garden didn’t respond to any of that. It didn’t care how early I showed up or how hard I pushed. It kept offering something quieter—an invitation to slow down, to pay attention, to be present. And eventually, I started to see how far I had drifted from the rhythms that actually sustain life. Not just on the land, but in how I relate to God and others too. The same slow, faithful way I had to tend a plant was now shaping how I approached everything—my family, my work, even my conversations. The garden’s rhythm became a daily reminder that I don’t have to perform or push. I just have to show up and tend what’s in front of me, in season, and trust that God is doing the rest.

The garden doesn’t have room for emotions. It isn’t cold or cruel, but it’s unbothered by our feelings. It doesn’t shift because we’re frustrated. It doesn’t make space for pity. It simply reveals. If a crop fails, it’s not personal. It’s a reflection of what wasn’t learned, what wasn’t tended, what wasn’t timed right. The soil doesn’t cater to our ignorance. It just tells the truth. Inconsistency doesn’t produce fruit. Passion alone won’t grow a tomato. You can want it with all your heart, but if the roots aren’t right, if the timing is off, if the conditions aren’t there, nothing will grow.

This same misalignment has quietly overflowed into the nonprofit world—a world that often believes every good mission should be funded, yet rarely understands the deeper rhythms of growth and timing. We’ve built systems that panic when funding dries up, as if the drought is a punishment or a death sentence. But in creation, drought doesn’t destroy the plant. It sends the roots deeper. It’s a signal—an invitation—to anchor into something stronger.

“He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit.” —Jeremiah 17:8

That’s the kind of formation drought produces. Not fear, but fruit. Not anxiety, but anchored trust. The lack above pushes the plant below, into the unseen places, where living water was always flowing, but only found by those willing to press in. Let the drought do its work. Let it drive you deeper. Jeremiah 17:8 isn’t just poetry—it’s a blueprint for Kingdom resilience.

I’ve lived it.

In August 2022, we found ourselves on the cusp of a drought, not just in the soil, but in our spirits. I wasn’t hearing or seeing much from God. Our personal bank account was drying up. The land was thirsty, and so were we. It wasn’t just financial strain or the looming weather patterns; it was the ache to understand the silence of God. The ache that asks: Have you left? Are you still near?

It reminded me of Psalm 42:1-2: "As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?" I didn’t need a solution. I needed presence.

Then one faithful evening, clouds began to gather. I was on my way to a men’s group, parked in the lot, but never got out of my truck. Something sacred was shifting in the atmosphere. It was as if creation itself was responding to an unseen command. The sky was heavy with promise.

As the clouds rolled in from the north, I turned around and drove home. I rolled my window down just to feel it on my skin, the breeze, the scent of rain, the stirring in my soul. And then I heard it. Not just in my spirit, but in the thunder and lightning as they split the sky open:
“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” —Joshua 1:9

In that moment, everything shifted. The heavens opened. The land drank deeply. And so did we. Our bank account was unexpectedly replenished by someone who loved us—unprompted, generous, and right on time. But more than that, our spirits were revived.

I came home, stepped out into the pouring rain, and worshiped. I didn’t just get wet—I got washed. Unconcerned with dignity, undone by the goodness of God. The God who doesn’t tease. The God who doesn’t forget. The God who shows up exactly when our roots are about to crack from thirst.

That night reminded me: drought is not the end. God never wastes wilderness. He uses it to reveal the kind of abundance that makes you dance, not because you got what you wanted, but because you remembered who you belong to.

What I’ve come to realize is that a lot of time and money in the nonprofit world goes toward trying to solve the tension of provision. It’s understandable. Most leaders are doing everything they can to keep their mission alive and meet the needs around them. So entire systems have been built to offer help—consultants, grant writers, strategists—people who mean well and truly want to support the cause.

But here’s the part that challenged me: if we’re not careful, we can start looking to people more than God. We can hand over the voice of our mission to someone outside the story. And slowly, the language starts to shift. The goals become more funder-friendly. The vision gets tweaked just enough to get the grant. It’s subtle, but I’ve seen how easy it is to start shaping the message for money instead of for what God originally said.

For me, I’ve learned I can’t do that. I don’t need someone outside the assignment trying to reshape it for approval. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with asking for help. But the Garden Project was never built on strategy—it was built on surrender. If God gave the assignment, I believe He’ll also send the right people and the right provision in the right time.

That’s not always easy. But it’s simple. And it’s peaceful. I’ve seen how God provides—not through pressure, but through alignment. Not through striving, but through trust.

He fed Elijah with bread brought by ravens, not exactly a noble delivery method. But that’s the point. God doesn’t need prestige. He doesn’t need polish. He needs obedience.

“You shall drink from the brook, and I have commanded the ravens to feed you there.” - 1 Kings 17:4

When Elijah stood where God told him to stand, provision came to meet him there. Not through status, not through appeal, but through divine appointment.

And when Jesus fed the thousands, it wasn’t through an optimized distribution plan or a donor-backed supply chain. It was through gratitude. He took what looked insufficient, gave thanks, and it multiplied.

“And taking the five loaves and the two fish, He looked up to heaven and said a blessing. Then He broke the loaves and gave them to the disciples to set before the crowd. And they all ate and were satisfied.” - Luke 9:16–17

That’s the economy I trust. The one that honors surrender over strategy. The one that multiplies through brokenness, not performance. The one that provides enough for today, and then comes back again tomorrow with more than enough for those willing to sit down and receive. The Garden Project wasn’t built by appealing to man. It was built by abiding in God. And as long as I’m stewarding what He planted, I won’t trade that posture for favor or funding.

And I’ll be honest. I feel very alone out here. In the best way possible.

Not isolated. Just set apart. The garden did that to me. It stripped away the noise, broke my addiction to comparison, and re-cultured my expectations. It taught me to listen to something deeper. To trust the unseen. To walk slower. To be okay with walking alone, because I’m not actually alone. I’m tethered. Rooted. Assigned.

The more I walk in this Kingdom rhythm, the more I realize how few are walking it this way. And yet, I wouldn’t trade it. Not for speed. Not for scale. Not for certainty. That’s not about comparison—it’s about truth.

“There is a way that seems right to a man, but its end is the way to death.” - Proverbs 14:12

Jesus said it plainly:
“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” - Matthew 7:13-14

I’ve felt the pull of that broad road. I’ve wandered onto it before, chasing approval, faster results, wider appeal. But the garden pulled me back. It taught me that most of what’s broadcasted culturally sounds promising, quick fixes, shiny growth, big reach, but it’s shallow. It dries up because it’s not rooted in truth. The source is off. The alignment is missing.

And I’ve seen that same pattern show up in the nonprofit world. There’s a whole system built to move fast, look productive, and stay fundable. Leaders are pushed to refine their messaging, shape their mission to align with funding trends, and deliver metrics that feel more like performance reviews than purpose-driven outcomes. We spend energy building what looks good on paper, while the roots are starving.

But the garden didn’t teach me that. The garden taught me to grow slow. To pay attention to the soil. To trust the quiet seasons. To believe that the underground work is just as holy as the harvest. That same rhythm now leads how I walk with people and steward this mission.

We don’t sprint. We don’t package a pitch for quick return. We tend. We water. We wait. And when the fruit comes, it’s real. It lasts. Because it came from something rooted.

And that’s what I believe the Kingdom is calling us back to, not shallow sources that promise ease, but deep wells of living water that never run dry.

If you’re finding this and something in your spirit says, “This is what I’ve been missing,” we’re here. Just presence. Just soil. Just the slow, faithful rhythm of becoming. Reach out when you’re ready. We’re here to walk alongside you, in season, with patience, faith, and hope.