Where the Herons Dine
Designing for storms, building with margin, and trusting the flood to reveal what’s been buried.
By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project
Every year around this time, we meet again with the weather and the seasons. And in Katy, that means hurricane season. Torrential rains. Flash floods. Ground so saturated we wonder if it’ll ever dry out. But this isn’t new. It’s not surprising. This is the climate we’re growing in—and we’re learning to grow with it, not around it.
We didn’t stumble into this. We thought we chose it—but truthfully, we followed God into it. We planted here without knowing just how much water the land could hold. If we had known, maybe we would’ve picked another site. But He had another plan. One that would form us, not just feed others. We chose to grow in a region with hard sun, hard rain, and hard truths. And through it all, He’s been showing us how to build margin—not just in the soil, but in the system, in the story, and in ourselves.
Even in the heaviest rains, our raised bed design holds faithful. It lifts the roots. It preserves the work. Most of these beds are now going on year three. And when they’ve given all they can give, we’ll chip the old boards into mulch and use them to feed the perennial plantings. Nothing wasted. Everything redeemed.
Most people see margin as a luxury. A little buffer. Something nice if you can afford it. But when we’re growing in unpredictable climates—physically or spiritually—margin becomes the difference between resilience and collapse. Raised beds are margin. The submersible pump? Margin. Rest days. Flexible schedules. Unhurried conversations. Relational space to breathe? That’s all margin too. And it’s not just practical—it’s Kingdom.
If this were a traditional in-ground row crop system, we couldn’t work. We couldn’t walk the fields for days—maybe even weeks—after heavy rain. The soil would be too saturated. It would shut us down. But more than that, it would hold us back from walking with the very people God is sending. Production-driven metrics would have us waiting on dry ground. But purpose-driven design keeps us moving with Him. Jesus never ran. He never rushed. He moved slowly, with purpose, because He had margin. He built space for interruptions, for teaching, for storms, for sleep. That wasn’t weakness. That was strength. We wouldn’t plant tomatoes in winter and expect a harvest. So why do we start families, lead teams, or build nonprofits without taking the climate into account?
We live in a world that floods. Spiritually, emotionally, relationally—it floods. But floods are not new. They’ve always come. Since the beginning, the rains have risen, the rivers have breached, and the land has groaned under the weight of too much at once. Ancient peoples didn’t just survive the flood—they studied it. They built around it. They saw it not as an interruption, but as a signal. A shift. A teacher. They understood what we’ve forgotten: the flood is part of the rhythm. And rhythms cannot be rushed. They can only be honored.
But modern life doesn’t like being interrupted. Even our ability to look ahead at the forecast can bring on complaining and discouragement. We see conditions we can’t control—conditions that are vital to life—and we label them as ruin. As interruption. We’ve built a rhythm of life that sees weather as inconvenience, not intelligence. As threat, not teacher. But the ancient rhythms remain. And we were never meant to live above them. We were meant to live with them.
We forget that we are one small component in an ancient ecosystem. The ecosystem doesn’t revolve around us. It never has. But it’s been generous to include us. And the more we humble ourselves to that truth, the more fruitful and effective we become. Our role matters, but it only works when we consider the whole. Just like in a healthy garden—where soil, water, insects, air, sunlight, root systems, and timing all dance together in mutual submission—our lives were meant to flow within God’s greater design, not above it.
But we’ve built with no elevation. No room. No relief. No margin. We’ve tried to scale our lives like empires, not steward them like gardens. And when the flood comes, we’re surprised. But we shouldn’t be. The flood was always coming. The seasons always shift. The rain always returns. The only question is—did we leave room for it?
Peace isn’t found in avoidance. It’s found in alignment. In recognizing that God’s world has always moved in cycles of tension and release. Overflow and rest. Fire and flood. And if we don’t build with those truths in mind, we’ll drown in the very ground we were called to cultivate. What was meant to be fruitful becomes fragile. What was meant to nourish others becomes too waterlogged to feed even ourselves.
And then we begin to resent what once felt sacred. The calling starts to feel like a burden. The family starts to feel like pressure. The ministry starts to feel like failure. Not because we weren’t chosen, but because we weren’t conditioned. We didn’t listen to the land. We didn’t build with rhythm. We ignored the warning signs and kept pressing forward, as if spiritual climate was separate from physical design.
But creation speaks. It always has. And if we’ll slow down enough to hear it, we’ll learn how to last. We’ll learn how to flow with the flood instead of fight it. And we’ll begin to understand that the rain isn’t the problem. The design is.
This garden is like an island—surrounded by water, but not overtaken by it. And the margin we’ve created allows us to stay above it. It keeps the roots from rotting. It keeps the mission alive. We didn’t pick the easy place to grow. But we picked the right one. Because when we grow in the storm, we learn to build with the storm in mind. We learn to watch the clouds, but not fear them. We learn to drain the field, but still believe in the harvest. We learn to see margin not as wasted space, but as sacred protection.
And here's what most people miss: we’re not just removing water. We’re redirecting it. We move it to a swale—a slow, sunken channel where the land can breathe. There, the rain doesn’t go to waste. It seeps back into the water table, restoring the ground for the long haul. The crawfish know. They burrow in. They move freely. And when the ecosystem breathes again, the night herons come. Supper is served. What looked like a flood becomes a feast.
Swales are hidden infrastructure. They don’t look impressive. They don’t announce themselves. But they are one of the most time-tested and powerful ways to restore water tables—especially in flood-prone places like this. When the rain is caught and held instead of rushing off, it’s allowed to soak deep. In sandy soils, it reaches the aquifer. In clay-heavy soil, it slowly saturates subsoil layers, helping recharge the land over time. And while one swale might not raise an entire water table in a season, over years, they stack. They build. They heal. What started as a single act of obedience becomes an underground reservoir of restoration. That’s what Kingdom margin does—it catches overflow, slows it down, and transforms it into life.
We don’t have to be told when the rain hits. We can feel it. The air shifts. The weight changes. And suddenly, what felt stuck or hidden starts to move. That’s what happens in the soil too. Crawfish rise within minutes after a soaking rain. The pressure changes, the oxygen flows, and the soil softens. What was once a wall becomes a path. Their burrows open again. Not because they were forced, but because conditions changed. Frogs show up just as quickly. Some begin calling before the rain even ends. Others wait for nightfall. But all of them respond to something deeper than instinct. They know when life is being stirred. They move toward it. They speak into it. They plant seed in temporary pools, trusting that what was provided will last just long enough to multiply life. No one has to coach them. No one needs to explain it. They just know. Because when heaven releases rain, the underground responds.
And isn’t that the Kingdom? Isn’t that how it works when God speaks and the buried start to move? That’s why we build swales. That’s why we leave margin. Because something’s coming that will awaken the ones who haven’t moved in a long time. And when it does, we don’t want to be too structured to welcome them. We want to be soft enough, flexible enough, and ready enough to say—"You’re right on time." There are people God has hidden underground. People not seen, not celebrated, not even understood. But they are not forgotten. And when the rain comes—when the Word is spoken, when the Spirit moves—they’ll rise. Quickly. Clearly. Without hesitation. It’s not our job to dig them up. It’s our job to prepare the ground. To steward the space. To believe that when the rain comes, the response will be immediate. Because that’s how it works in the soil. That’s how it works in the Spirit. And that’s how it works in the Kingdom.
That heron we saw didn’t show up by accident. It came because the conditions were right—because something beneath the surface was moving. It knew. And what it reveals isn’t just about nature, it’s about the Kingdom. Night herons are drawn to shallow, slow-moving water—places where fish, frogs, and crawfish come to the surface. They don’t follow storms. They follow stillness. They know how to find peace after pressure. The same is true for us. We don’t chase chaos to feel useful—we steward the aftermath, where provision becomes visible.
The heron doesn’t rush in blindly. It listens. It watches the land. It knows the signs of recent rain, the softened ground, the subtle movement of life beginning to stir. It aligns with what just happened, responding not out of fear but out of trust. That’s how spiritual discernment works. We respond to what God’s already doing, not what we wish was happening. And that takes humility. Because our flesh wants to move ahead. It wants to force results, fix problems, and stir things up just to feel progress. But the heron shows us another way. It doesn’t force the moment. It waits for the right one. That’s the work of faith—to be ready, not rushed. To be watchful, not worried. The heron knows that movement above the surface usually started long before, beneath it. So it watches for confirmation. It honors the signs. It trusts that what was hidden will rise when the time is right. That’s what we’re learning too. To stop acting from anxiety. To stop building out of pressure. And to start aligning with God’s rhythm. Because when we wait on Him, we don’t miss the moment—we meet it.
The heron also knows where not to go. It doesn’t fish in loud or frantic places. It hunts at dawn, at dusk, in the margins. Quietly. Patiently. It knows its provision will come into view, so it waits with confidence. In the same way, we don’t need to perform to receive. There’s authority in stillness. Power in presence. Margin makes space for abundance. And when the heron finds what it’s looking for, it remembers. It returns. It doesn’t forget where it was last fed. It comes back to the swale, the flooded edge, the place that made room. That’s what we’re building here—not just a garden that grows food, but a space that remembers how to welcome life.
But what about during the storm—when the winds pick up, when the rain falls sideways, when the pressure hasn’t let up yet? Herons don’t try to hunt in that moment. They don’t resist the storm or pretend it isn’t real. They take cover. They perch low in dense trees or press into shelter, waiting with wisdom instead of panic. They don’t abandon their territory—they just know how to pause. And when the storm passes, they return. Not frantic, but focused. Ready. It’s not a failure to seek refuge. It’s survival. It’s discernment. And we’re learning to do the same. When the conditions get loud or hostile, we don’t keep performing. We don’t try to force what God hasn’t released. We take cover in Him. We hide in His wings. We wait for the moment to move—not with fear, but with faith that the ground will be ready again. It always is.
And so, when we see the heron, we smile. Because we knew. We built with margin. We knew the climate we were growing in. And we made room—where the herons dine.
