This Is Where Life Is

Why the Weeds Hold the Key to Generational Healing

By Josh Singleton | Founder and Lead Cultivator, The Neighborhood Garden Project

We don’t start with sterile, unseeded, unrooted plots.

Every garden we cultivate has a history—and most of that history is hidden underground. What looks like fresh soil is often a canvas of compromise, a mix of past efforts and overlooked consequences. Inherited weeds don’t ask for permission. They simply remain until someone chooses to go deep enough to remove them.

This is true in the garden. And it’s true in life.

Some families come and go. They plant, harvest, and move on. But what they leave behind—their patterns, neglect, and surface-level work—becomes the soil someone else inherits. And the next season’s success hinges entirely on whether those who come after are willing to go deeper than those who came before.

Weeds are generational. So is healing.

A weed, by definition, is simply a plant out of position. There are no “bad” plants—only ones growing where they were never meant to. And that truth shifts everything. The issue isn’t the existence of the plant, but its positioning. In God’s Kingdom, this means that what once served a purpose in a former season may now be misaligned in the present one. If we fail to discern what’s out of place, we’ll confuse misalignment with blessing, inheritance with calling. Even in church or ministry settings, we may cling to rhythms, models, or traditions that were fruitful once but have since become overgrown and unrooted from God’s present voice. Weeds don’t start off evil—they start off in the wrong place. And when we mistake familiarity for faithfulness, we risk preserving what God is pruning.

This is where we must learn to walk with spiritual discernment. Hebrews 5:14 tells us that “solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.” We can no longer be content with surface obedience. We must ask hard questions: Is this rooted in God, or just rooted in history? Are we protecting tradition because it honors God, or because it validates our comfort? Even Jesus said, “You nullify the word of God for the sake of your tradition” (Matthew 15:6). He wasn’t dishonoring the past—He was calling people to align with what God was doing now.

When we confuse what’s familiar with what’s faithful, we risk building monuments where God intended movement. And movement always begins with letting go. Scripture reminds us, "See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?" (Isaiah 43:19). Without perception, we’ll honor position over purpose and miss the new thing God is cultivating in the soil of this generation.

This isn’t about abandoning our roots. It’s about knowing which roots to keep and which to remove. Some things, once planted in faith, now grow in misalignment. A weed is still a creation of God. But if it grows in the wrong place, it crowds out what He planted for this time, in this soil, for this generation.

Let the gardener discern. Let the Spirit reveal. Let the church be humble enough to move.

The temptation is to accept the condition of the soil as absolute. To assume that if it looks normal, it must be right. But many of us in our 30s and 40s are walking on paths of least resistance, mistaking inherited dysfunction for divine direction. And if we don’t stop and question it, the next generation will do the same—repeating cycles instead of renewing the soil.

We’re not just inheriting land. We’re inheriting the lies that were planted in it.

The roots are mostly unseen, but they’re predictable. They trace all the way back to Genesis 3, when mankind fractured its relationship with God and walked away from His presence. But let’s ask the deeper question—how many generations—hundreds, even thousands—are tangled in these roots? What exactly are we pulling at when we choose to dig deep? We’re not just facing our personal choices—we’re reaching into centuries of spiritual compromise, confronting patterns that were planted long before us. These aren’t just weeds from our generation. They’ve been passed down, silently shaping how we think, live, and lead. And with every root we pull, we’re not only finding freedom—we’re setting others free. Each uprooted lie severs a cycle that could’ve held future generations hostage. This is more than self-help or personal growth. It’s Kingdom work. It’s legacy work. And it happens on holy ground.

Since Genesis 3, we’ve inherited rhythms of disconnection—striving, surviving, planting, and harvesting without intimacy. But the Cross changed everything. Now, with the Spirit alive in us, we’re equipped to discern fruit from weeds. And yet, because we’ve drifted so far from the ancient rhythms of the soil, many of us live Spirit-filled lives still disconnected from God’s original design. As Paul writes, “For the creation waits in eager expectation for the children of God to be revealed...in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God” (Romans 8:19–21). The soil groans. And so should we.

This is why redefining lifestyle matters. A Kingdom-rooted lifestyle isn’t built on achievements or appearances. It looks like waking up early to listen. Returning to the same soil again and again. Saying no to distraction so you can say yes to presence. It’s Sabbath. It’s generosity. It’s pruning your schedule so your spirit can grow. It’s silence when the world is loud. It’s asking God daily: what needs uprooting? What needs watering? What needs waiting? This kind of lifestyle forms spiritual muscle memory—it doesn’t depend on intensity, but on faithfulness.

And when the weeds come up, they’re not discarded as waste—they’re redeemed as compost. Weeds once rooted in the kingdom of darkness, when pulled and surrendered, are no longer threats. They become nourishment. The very roots that once choked us now break down and feed the soil, enriching what God is cultivating for the future. That’s the mystery of redemption. Nothing is wasted. Everything surrendered becomes soil.

We chase symptoms and never deal with the roots. We rush to fix what’s visible while the real issue spreads underground. Science affirms that when only part of a weed is removed—especially in species with rhizomatic root systems like nutsedge or Bermuda grass—the remaining root structure interprets disturbance as a threat and responds by growing deeper and spreading wider. In other words, shallow removal actually invigorates the root. Spiritually, the same is true. We want to appear healed more than we want to be whole. And so we create polished images and curated lives, but the disturbance remains. The signal is there—God’s grace nudging us to pay attention. Because even when life appears “successful,” something inside feels misaligned.

We unknowingly or knowingly surrender to God so that He might bless our lifestyle, but have no real intention of dying to self. We want His favor without His formation. And in the process, we confuse personal ambition with divine assignment. We assume our dreams are His will simply because they succeed in the world’s eyes. But God is not obligated to fund what He didn’t initiate.

We’ve become experts at using religion to validate a lifestyle that God never assigned. That’s what’s keeping most out of the Kingdom. We’ve learned to decorate disobedience with church attendance, scripture quotes, and service projects—hoping that appearance will substitute for alignment. But God doesn’t anoint ego. He funds obedience. And until we lay down our need to be affirmed and start living from assignment, we’ll remain fruitful in appearance but barren in impact.

And inevitably, our children are being sustained on the fruit of ego, not the fruit of the Spirit. They’re consuming what looks like success but lacks substance. What we don’t dig up, they’ll have to live with—and often defend. And they won’t question it unless they see us do the hard work first, with consistency, humility, and patience. We show them a better way not by what we say, but by what we’re willing to uproot.

Cultivation is the only way forward.

And it’s not fast.

True cultivation—the kind that transforms a plot—starts by identifying what doesn’t belong. The roots of entitlement. Bitterness. Envy. Isolation. Scarcity. Each has a root system that often goes deeper than our own fruit-bearing roots. The weeds will win unless they’re removed completely.

But here’s the beautiful truth: while the work is slow, it multiplies in the context of community. What took years to root can be pulled in minutes when you’re not alone. And that’s the point of this work—we’re not meant to weed in isolation.

It’s the most avoided task in the garden. Just like in life. People love the harvest. They show up for abundance. They enjoy the fruit. But lives aren’t changed in the eating. Lives are changed in the process—in the sweat, in the tears, in the realization that God has allowed us to partner with Him to bring order out of chaos.

And that’s exactly what the weeds are: chaos.

But the garden doesn’t lie. It doesn’t care how much you cry or plead or beg. It runs by principles. You have to embody the rhythms of the soil to understand that abundance flows through the deep work of cultivation. Avoiding the process is what’s killing our generation. Avoidance is what will keep us under the thumb of darkness. You simply cannot produce sustainable fruit for generations without digging deep.

Even some pastors borrow garden metaphors while remaining disconnected from the soil, missing the heartbeat of the metaphor entirely. There’s no sweat on their brow, no soil under their nails, no cracks in their soft hands. No sign that they’ve ever knelt in the same earth their sermons speak of. And without intimacy with the ground, the metaphors lose their authority. They sound poetic, but they carry no power—because power in the Kingdom doesn’t come from clever language, it comes from lived experience.

If there’s any hope for restoration in this country, it’s through the rhythms of the soil. Talking about it isn’t enough. Reading about it isn’t enough. It must be experienced. It must be embodied.

This isn’t a rebuke. It’s a reminder. A call to return. An invitation to get your hands in the soil again, the very soil God formed you in from the beginning. "Then the Lord God formed the man of dust from the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living creature" (Genesis 2:7). This is not poetic metaphor—it is the origin of our design. We were made from soil, sustained by breath, and destined to walk in union with the One who made us. And it’s in that very soil, not the illusion of sterile success, where God still meets us. We don't just return to the ground—we return to communion, to dependency, to the birthplace of purpose. The soil remembers. And so must we.

Because God knows—once the weeds are pulled, they’re no longer tied to the kingdom of darkness. They’re not wasted. What once worked against us begins to break down and feed the very thing God planted in us long before we were born. Even the roots that once strangled our growth can serve the soil when surrendered. In His hands, nothing is wasted.

And when the weeds fight back—and they will—we trust that the root system is not stronger than the One who created us. Sometimes, there are ants guarding the soil. Sometimes the sting of the past rushes back. But even that pain becomes a teacher. A holy reminder that entry into the Kingdom comes not through avoidance but through endurance. God does not give us more than we can bear or hold. He meets us in the deep.

But He also meets us in the daily. In the consistency of showing up when no one’s watching. The secret to breakthrough isn’t intensity—it’s consistency. The garden doesn’t yield to one big moment of effort. It yields to steady hands, returning again and again. So when the weeds return—and they will—don’t see it as failure. See it as invitation. Cultivation is not a one-time act, it’s a lifestyle. And not just any lifestyle—a Kingdom-rooted one. One that refuses to settle for surface-level transformation. One that looks like coming back to the soil over and over, in season and out, when it's easy and when it's not. This kind of lifestyle redefines success. It trades comfort for consistency. It builds habits of presence, not performance. It trusts that the fruit isn’t just the goal—it’s the byproduct of faithfulness. And the ones who learn to keep digging, to keep showing up, to keep listening to the soil, are the ones who see fruit that lasts for generations.

Jesus said, “My yoke is easy. My burden is light.” He didn’t say there would be no yoke—He promised we wouldn’t carry it alone. His way is not absent of weight, but it’s a weight matched with grace, made lighter by the presence that walks with us and the community that surrounds us. The yoke becomes light because it’s no longer carried in isolation—it’s shared with the One who already overcame the weight of sin and death. And in the garden, just like in life, we don’t cultivate alone. We cultivate alongside a King who gets down in the dirt with us. The easy yoke doesn’t mean easy work—it means empowered work. Empowered by presence. Empowered by purpose. Empowered by rest that comes from alignment, not absence of effort. That’s why the weeds can come up with joy. That’s why the soil can be healed. That’s why the burden is light—because we’re no longer trying to carry what we were never designed to grow alone.

This year's corn harvest is over as of a few weeks ago. It was harvested and devoured in two weekends. Nearly 700 ears were harvested. The stalks are gone. The fruit is gone. But what’s left behind is the truth: weeds. And as I work this soil alone with God, pitchfork in hand, I’m reminded of Genesis. The beginning. Where everything good started in the soil. I’ve come to not enjoy the harvest anymore. It’s better to give it away. Because I’ve found what I’m looking for—and it’s in the weeds.

The weeds are where life is.

The corn is only evidence that cultivation happened. But the weeds? They reveal the areas I still need to go deeper. They expose what tried to grow alongside the fruit. Their roots—rhizomes designed to spread by root, not by seed—taught me something. The source was buried, not scattered. But when I tugged with intention, the earth trembled. It gave way.

What was hidden came loose.

So I keep going, pitchfork in hand. Plot by plot. Root by root.

And I’ve never been more alive.

The Parable of the Weed: Nutsedge

And Jesus said,

“The Kingdom of Heaven is like a garden where nutsedge took root.

It grew fast. It looked like grass—harmless, familiar. But it was not planted. It was not welcome.

The gardener tried to pull it, but it returned. He tried again, and it came back stronger. Why?

Because beneath the surface, it hid tubers—tiny nodes that multiplied in secret. Every time it was disturbed without being fully uprooted, it spread deeper.

A visitor saw the weeds and said, ‘You must not be tending this garden well.’

But the gardener replied, ‘No, I just inherited a field with things buried before I arrived.’

He got on his knees, not to perform, but to discern. He followed the roots. He loosened the soil.

Day after day, he labored—not to destroy the weed, but to remove its grip.

And slowly, what once overran the garden made space for what was truly meant to grow.”

Then Jesus said,

“Not all weeds are loud.

Some mimic the good until it’s too late.

They grow fast, look useful, and multiply in the shadows.

But the one who tends carefully, patiently, and with wisdom will know—

You don’t just pull the surface.

You heal the soil beneath it.”

This parable is for those tending spaces with inherited wounds—leaders, mentors, parents, and cultivators of people. It's for anyone facing deep-rooted patterns that didn’t start with them but still require their attention. It reminds us that true restoration doesn’t come through quick fixes but through kneeling, discerning, and healing the soil beneath the surface.