When Abundance Breaks You

Lessons from Cracked Tomatoes

By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project

We just had good rain. The kind that soaks deep and wakes everything up. And it brought with it a predictable sight—tomatoes split wide open. They looked perfect the day before. Red, full, ripe. But that sudden flush of water, after a stretch of dry soil, caused them to take in more than they were ready for. It wasn’t random. It was too much water, too fast—more than the skin could hold.

Scientifically, tomatoes behave like sponges. In a drought, the plant conserves, adjusting slowly to the lack. The fruit hangs on, toughening its skin. But after a dry season, if water suddenly floods the soil, the fruit swells rapidly from the inside. The skin can’t keep up. It splits. The fruit didn’t break because it was weak. It broke because it grew too fast for its structure.

And that’s what happens to us too. We ask God for more—more provision, more opportunity, more influence. But if our roots haven’t grown deep, if our internal capacity hasn’t been stretched steadily over time, then a sudden downpour of blessing can do more harm than good. Not because the blessing is bad, but because we weren’t built to hold it. This is why God withholds at times—not to punish us, but to prepare us.

He has this incredible mercy. He stretches our skin slowly. He builds our root system quietly. Every delay is not denial, it’s formation. Through every intentional relationship, every slow “yes,” and every unseen act of obedience, He’s increasing our ability to hold what He already desires to give. We’ve seen it firsthand. With each funding opportunity, each divine connection, our capacity has grown—not in a rush, but in rhythm. Our skin has been stretched by grace, not forced by striving. God’s provision keeps matching our formation, not our ambition.

But sometimes it’s not God pushing for more—it’s us. Our inner desire, fueled by ego, rushes to build what hasn’t been rooted. We long for results before refinement. We want to be seen before we’ve surrendered. We want God’s provision, but we don’t want His presence. We want harvest, but not pruning. We want breakthrough, but without the drought.

What have you asked God for that you haven’t been willing to grow into?

And that’s how so many individuals and organizations split wide open. They chase abundance before they’ve been shaped by surrender. They ask for more than they’re willing to grow into. And when the growth comes too quickly, it shows: the structure isn’t ready. The fruit splits before it feeds anyone.

Some tomato varieties are built to handle that kind of pressure. Cherry and grape tomatoes like Sun Gold, Juliet, and Sweet 100 rarely split, even after heavy rain. Their small size and firm skins make them resilient. Paste tomatoes like Roma and San Marzano are denser, with less water content, so they handle sudden shifts more gracefully. Certain hybrids like Mountain Magic and Big Beef were bred to resist cracking altogether. But the heirlooms—big, beautiful, fragile varieties like Brandywine and Cherokee Purple—often split first. Their thin skin and large size make them vulnerable when the conditions change too quickly.

And people are the same. Some of us have grown slowly, in the quiet. Through hardship, pruning, hiddenness. We’ve been shaped beneath the surface. So when the rain finally comes, we can hold it. We don’t break. We steward the abundance and feed others from it. Others grow quickly—without deep formation, without drought, without surrender. And when blessing comes, it’s too much. The skin splits. The structure can’t hold.

God knows the difference. And He’s not in a rush. He’s more interested in formation than in speed. His presence forms what provision alone never could.

And just like in the garden, drought isn’t always a setback—it’s where roots deepen. When surface water dries up, the plant sends its roots lower, searching for what’s unseen. It doesn’t panic. It digs deeper. That’s the secret most people miss: the drought doesn’t signal the absence of God—it signals His presence. It’s not a punishment. It’s an invitation to tap into a well that never runs dry, to anchor into a Source the world can’t see. Drought reveals where we’ve been drawing from. It invites us to grow not by sight, but by trust.

Because when we’ve been formed in that place, when we’ve been stretched through surrender and sustained by Presence, we don’t split when the rain comes. We’re ready. We hold the weight. We multiply the blessing.

So let Him stretch you. Let Him prune you. Let Him walk you through the drought without panic. Because when the abundance comes—and it will—you won’t burst. You’ll carry it. You’ll multiply it. You’ll feed the world with it.

Only fruit that stays whole can nourish others.