Formed in the Drought
Where roots go deep and obedience bears fruit
By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project
Most people fear the drought.
In the garden, a drought can look like failure. Plants stop growing. The soil cracks. Fruit withers before it ever forms. It can feel like something’s wrong—like the whole system is broken. But I’ve lived through enough dry seasons now to know: the drought doesn’t mean death. It means development. Drought is where capacity is built.
“Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord.
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: 7-8
This is the picture God gives us—not of a shallow, surface-level life, but of a person who’s deeply rooted. The kind of person who doesn’t panic when the drought comes. Who doesn’t rely on seasonal rain but draws from something deeper. Who continues to bear fruit, even when everything around them dries up.
Take the old live oak at our first garden site. It’s easily over 100 years old—broad, majestic, and still thriving. That tree has survived more droughts than I can count. But here’s what most people don’t see: its survival wasn’t luck. It was design. Live oaks, like many native species, are built for seasons of lack. When rainfall disappears, the oak doesn’t panic. It doesn’t drop all its leaves or send branches higher to chase clouds. It goes deeper.
The root system of a mature live oak can extend laterally two to three times the width of its canopy. Vertically, those roots may reach ten to fifteen feet into the earth. In drought, these deeper roots tap into ancient water sources most plants can’t reach. That access isn’t accidental. It was developed slowly, over time, through repeated seasons of stress. What looked like nothing on the surface was actually a training ground below.
And here’s what’s even more remarkable: live oaks don’t just survive the drought for themselves. Through a process known as hydraulic lift, they draw water from deep underground and redistribute it into the upper soil layers through their shallower roots, especially at night.
While the world quiets down and the tree is no longer pulling water upward through its leaves, something hidden takes place. With transpiration slowed and pressure balanced, the oak begins to share. Water drawn from deep underground is quietly lifted and leaked into the dry soil above—not for show, not for praise, but because that’s what rooted things do. Even in the dark, even when nothing appears active, it’s giving.
That’s not just biology—it’s Kingdom.
In a world obsessed with daytime performance and visible output, here’s a tree doing its most generous work when no one is watching. Not because it has to. But because it’s tapped into something deep enough to release what it carries without depletion. This is how God designed creation. Strength developed in the drought becomes provision in the darkness. It doesn’t just survive. It serves.
Most people look for growth in the light. But some of the most generous work happens in the dark.
That’s what hydraulic lift reveals. As the tree quiets, when the pulling and producing slow down, it gives. Not by effort. Not for applause. But because it’s rooted deep enough to release what it has, even when no one sees.
This is how Kingdom people are formed.
If you’ve been in a “night season”—where things feel still, unseen, or stripped back—don’t assume you’re not useful. The deepest giving often happens when the world isn’t watching. Not because you’re trying harder, but because your roots have tapped into something real. Your life becomes a quiet stream for those nearby who can’t reach water yet.
God isn’t looking for surface activity. He’s looking for rooted ones who can release life in dry places.
Even in the night.
But here’s the tragedy. Culturally, we don’t even feel drought until it disrupts our comfort. We don’t notice the land is dry until we’re told we can’t water our lawns or flower beds. It’s not thirst that gets our attention—it’s inconvenience.
And that same posture carries into our spiritual lives. We’ve dulled our senses. We’ve built systems that insulate us from need—so well, in fact, that we no longer recognize when we’re dry. As long as the surface looks green, we assume everything’s fine. But we’ve trained ourselves to treat lack as a problem to fix, not a signal to follow. So when drought comes—when God removes something to deepen us—we scramble. Not because we’re hungry for Him, but because we’re afraid of discomfort.
We’ve forgotten how to let the land speak. We’ve forgotten how to read the signs of the Spirit. And in doing so, we’ve lost our natural connection to the deeper rhythms God designed to form us—not just feed us.
And because back in 2020, when COVID hit, it drove us further inward—into isolation, into screens, into convenience—we’ve become even more detached from the natural world. Our lives are more compartmentalized than ever. Grocery delivery replaced gardening. Video calls replaced walking. Artificial rhythms replaced natural ones. So now, when drought comes—physically or spiritually—we don’t lean in to understand. We strive. We panic. We complain. We treat disruption like a glitch instead of an invitation.
But I remember that season vividly. In 2020, I was serving as a garden manager in a neighborhood in Richmond. As panic gripped the world and news spread like wildfire, I stepped outside—and God spoke. He said, “Look around. My creation has no idea what’s happening in the human world right now. It’s unaffected. And so you should be unaffected too. Have peace.” And in that moment, it all became clear.
From 30,000 feet, COVID looked like someone had kicked an ant pile. Panic. Uncertainty. Everyone scattering, trying to hold onto what was familiar. Trying to preserve their lifestyle, their comforts, their illusion of control. And for many, that moment revealed something deeper: God was never their Source—and He still left the invitation open. Even in the unraveling, He was extending peace. Not the kind that comes from control, but the kind that comes from presence.
That’s the deeper truth about drought. It isn’t always a lack of rain. It’s any lack—emotional, spiritual, physical—that reveals who or what we were truly relying on. And even more than the lack itself, it’s our response to it. That’s what exposes our roots. Do we reach deeper, or do we reach for control? Do we trust the Source, or scramble to patch the surface? Drought doesn’t lie. It reveals. And our response determines whether we’ll be formed by it or anxious in it.
The garden didn’t panic. The birds didn’t panic. The trees didn’t pull up their roots and run. They stayed grounded because they were still tapped into something real. And that’s what God was showing me. The created world was preaching peace, but we weren’t listening.
If a drought exposes what your roots were really in, let it. Let it lead you deeper. Let it strip away the surface. Let it invite you back to the Source. Because through anchoring down, the oak didn’t just survive the drought—it became a tree that can withstand hurricanes. Its strength wasn’t grown overnight. It was developed in the hidden places. In storm science, shallow-rooted trees are the first to fall. But oaks that grow slowly and root deeply are the ones still standing when the winds die down. That’s what Kingdom capacity really is—not just strength for dry seasons, but stability for the storms that follow.
God is a jealous God. He won’t share His glory with systems built on ego. And when surface-level funding dries up, those who’ve been doing philanthropic work for recognition or self-fulfillment will be uprooted. Not because they weren’t doing good things—but because what they built was never sustained by Him. It wasn’t rooted in holy assignment. It was held up by human applause, not obedience.
So when we face our own droughts—when the applause quiets, when resources vanish, when outcomes stall—it’s not the time to panic. It’s the time to ask: Was this built by God, or built by me? Was it sustained by His presence, or my performance?
In the garden, we’ve learned not to overcorrect. We don’t rush to pour water on everything. We observe. We listen. We learn from what survives. And the oak keeps teaching us: the ones who make it through are the ones who’ve gone below. Drought will test if your vision was rooted in God’s presence or just His provision. If your mission collapses when resources disappear, it wasn’t anchored deep enough. But if the drought drives you inward—if it rewires your trust and deepens your faith—you’re being formed, not forsaken.
Some of the strongest people I know were formed when no one was watching. They didn’t bloom under spotlight. They were developed in the drought. Their faith didn’t grow when everything made sense. It grew when nothing did.
And maybe that’s why God asked me to say yes to His work. Not because I had all the answers. Not because I was the most experienced gardener. But because He knew there were others behind me—people who would one day long to be a part of His work too. And someone had to go first. Someone had to say yes in the drought. Someone had to find the deep well of His presence, not just for their own survival—but so they could testify when others arrive thirsty.
I said yes not because I had it all together, but because I had lived without water long enough to recognize what never runs dry. And now, every step of obedience—especially in seasons that feel barren—becomes living proof for someone else that God is still enough.
That’s what gives this assignment its weight. It’s not about being impressive. It’s about being available. It’s about becoming a living witness that even here, even now, God is enough.
