The Canopy of Trust

By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project

On May 10th, a group of Eagle Scouts came out to our second garden site at Emmanuel Episcopal Church. That day, they planted ten trees—bald cypress, river birch, pine, and one big 45-gallon live oak. The site’s not finished yet, but this was a big step. It wasn’t just a workday—it was the start of something meaningful.

But what happened after stood out even more.

Right after planting, a pair of mockingbirds showed up. They kept flying around the new live oak like it had already become their home. A few days later, we came back and saw it: they had built a nest right in the tree. And inside that nest? Tiny eggs—and soon after, a baby bird.

Here’s what really caught my attention: the nest was lined with black material. When we looked closer, we realized it was old weed barrier fabric. It had once covered this land, left over from a garden that didn’t make it. We had cleared it out to start fresh, but now, it was being used as part of a new beginning. What was once a barrier became part of a nest.

That’s just how God works sometimes.

Back on planting day, we made sure the Scouts watered the trees really well. But I didn’t think about the weather coming before and after—it was dry. So dry that the ground pulled the water away from the roots. The top of the live oak got scorched. The leaves looked rough.

But the birds didn’t leave.

They stayed. They trusted. And even as the tree was struggling, the nest stayed protected. That baby bird didn’t know about drought. It just opened its mouth and trusted food would come. And it did. The rain came back. But even before it did, that little bird was safe under the green part of the tree that survived. The nest was built exactly where it needed to be.

What’s wild is, there are way bigger, stronger trees all around. But mockingbirds don’t nest way up high. They stay low. This little oak, not yet strong or tall, was just right. Just the right height. Just the right location.

Mockingbirds aren’t just nesters, either. They defend. And they do it with everything they’ve got. Even if a hawk flies too close, they’ll go after it. Not every bird is chased off—only the ones that pose a threat. The result is something amazing: other small birds can live and rest inside that protected zone too, even if they’re not part of the original nest.

That’s what the garden is becoming—a place where others can come and feel safe. And it works because everything’s connected. We’ve left part of the site wild and unmowed. That wild area is full of bugs—spiders, beetles, grasshoppers—the kind of food mockingbirds love. We intentionally created a cycle: the birds get food, and we get protection. That’s what makes this whole thing work. We don’t manage every part of the garden. We just try to pay attention and let it grow into what it’s meant to be.

Because the birds stayed, that tree is more than just a tree now. It’s a sign. It tells us this is a place worth trusting. A place to begin again.

This wasn’t random. The tree, the birds, the old cloth—it all came together. The mother bird didn’t build in what was burnt. She built in what was still holding on. That one little bird with its mouth open? It was proof that life still lives here.

We followed up right away. Started watering deeply and more often. And now, the tree is looking better. The leaves are stabilizing. The roots are taking hold. Life is settling in.

When the mockingbirds showed up at our second site, they didn’t need a perfect tree. They just needed one that was faithful. One that was there. The big live oak we planted that day wasn’t in perfect shape. In fact, the top leaves burned up from the heat not long after we put it in the ground. I felt like I had failed it. But the birds didn’t leave. They built their nest anyway.

They saw something that most of us miss. They saw a place they could trust.

We didn’t have everything figured out that day. The site wasn’t finished. The trees weren’t established. But those birds didn’t wait for conditions to be perfect—they moved in because something about that space felt safe. And that made me think about how often in the nonprofit world, people are waiting for perfection, for proof, for guarantees before they give or support or build. But real trust doesn’t wait on results. It moves on what’s real. And what’s real is presence. What’s real is faithfulness.

That black cloth in their nest? It used to be part of the old garden that had to be torn up. What used to be a barrier became bedding. God knows how to use what we let go of. That’s what He does. He repurposes things.

And then there's that little bird, stretching its mouth wide, waiting for food—not anxious, just trusting. That image stuck with me. Because that’s how this work feels sometimes. We don’t always know where the provision is coming from, but we open our hands anyway. And God always shows up.

The mockingbirds didn’t just find a tree—they made it home. They also protected it. Mockingbirds don’t just nest. They defend. They’ll take on hawks and bigger birds without thinking twice. And by being there, they make the whole area safer, not just for themselves, but for every other small bird nearby.

That’s the kind of culture we want to build—where one act of trust opens the door for many, where protection flows naturally out of presence, where people feel safe to take root because someone else showed up first and stayed.

Now, under that same tree, life is unfolding. The soil is getting the water it needs. The roots are adjusting. We’re learning that it takes time for trees to feel free after being in containers for years. Their roots were trained to circle. Even when they’re planted in new soil, they don’t stretch right away. They’ve got to unlearn old patterns. They’ve got to feel the safety of the soil before they reach out.

That’s us too. A lot of people have been in containers—limited by fear, religion, trauma, or just the way life shaped them. But the Kingdom is wide open soil. And when God replants us, it doesn’t mean we grow tall overnight. It means we start learning how to trust the ground again. It means we stop circling and start stretching.

We made a few cuts on the root ball when we planted that oak. Not to hurt it, but to help it remember what it was made for. That it was never meant to stay bound. And slowly, it’s starting to reach.

And just like that tree, people don’t have to be all grown up to be used by God. That little oak is already offering shade. Already making space for life. You don’t have to have it all together. You just have to be rooted.

That’s what we’re doing here. We’re helping people get out of containers. We’re giving them real soil. And we’re walking with them while they take root.

So if you’re waiting to feel ready, don’t. If the birds didn’t wait for the tree to be tall, maybe you don’t need to wait either. Maybe presence is enough. Maybe your “yes” is what makes the ground holy. Maybe it’s the mockingbirds who had it right all along—trust what’s faithful. Build where there’s presence.

We weren’t made for pots. We were made for soil that never ends.

Let’s stretch.

Let’s believe again.

Let’s take root.

“...like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes...” — Jeremiah 17:8