We Take Our Cues from Creation

Following the Way of the Oak to Become a Keystone Presence

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

Some trees bear fruit. Some trees provide shade. But only a few change the entire ecosystem. In nature, the oak is one of those rare trees. Not because it's the tallest or the fastest growing. In fact, oaks are notoriously slow. They don’t rush. But over time, their rooted presence transforms everything around them.

Biologists call them keystone species—a term that also applies to wolves, beavers, prairie dogs, and certain coral species—organisms so integral to an ecosystem that without them, the entire system begins to unravel. Remove the oak, and you remove shelter, food, and function for hundreds of other species. Their leaves feed the forest floor. Their branches host birds. Their acorns nourish mammals and insects alike. Even their fallen limbs become life for something else. Oaks don’t dominate—they hold everything together.

A keystone organization works the same way. It’s not defined by spotlight or speed. A keystone organization is one whose presence stabilizes and nourishes everything around it, not by dominating, but by creating conditions for others to flourish.

This is what we long to emulate through The Neighborhood Garden Project. Not through noise or visibility. But by becoming steady. Present. Rooted. We are not claiming to be the oak—we are becoming students of its way. We are learning how to stay when it would be easier to move. How to deepen when it would be easier to widen. How to serve as shelter, not spotlight. Our prayer is to become a keystone presence, not by strategy, but by surrender. We take our cues from creation, not culture. We look to the quiet order of the natural world rather than the loud demands of modern systems. What God built into the earth still reveals how His Kingdom comes—slowly, humbly, beneath the surface.

So what makes the oak so critical? And what would it look like for a humble community effort to follow its lead?

First, the oak develops a deep root system early in life. These roots anchor the tree through storms, drought, and pressure. They draw from hidden reservoirs that shallow-rooted trees never touch. These roots aren’t visible, but they are everything. They are the evidence that life will endure. In the same way, the Garden Project was not built overnight. It was formed underground, in hiddenness, through stillness and surrender. The fruit may be visible now, but the real proof is the root. It doesn’t need to be seen to be significant. Its depth is its defense. Like the Kingdom of God itself, which Jesus said “does not come with observation,” the Garden arrives quietly, first in the soil, then in the soul.

Second, the oak is in no hurry. It grows slowly—sometimes taking decades to mature—but its impact stretches across centuries. In a world obsessed with acceleration, we’re learning to move at the speed of faithfulness. We don’t chase quick wins or outcomes. We walk slowly with people, places, and purpose. Because of this, any fruit we bear can become generational, not seasonal.

Third, oaks are biodiversity anchors. They support over 500 species of caterpillars in North America alone, which in turn feed countless birds and animals. Their canopy shelters, their branches house, and their acorns nourish. In the same way, we hope the Garden will become a place where many forms of life can flourish—mothers and mentors, young boys and old souls, seekers and sowers. We aren’t trying to be everything to everyone. We are simply trying to be exactly what we were created to be.

Fourth, oaks give back more than they take. Through falling leaves, acorn cycles, and natural pruning, the oak regenerates the very soil it lives in. It leaves the ground better than it found it. So we aim to do the same. Not to extract from people or communities, but to enrich them. Wherever we are planted, our desire is that spiritual, emotional, and relational soil becomes more fertile. That those who once felt overlooked begin to grow.

Fifth, oaks are part of something larger than themselves. Underground, they form mycorrhizal partnerships with fungi that help share nutrients, stabilize the system, and send early warning signals. These unseen connections make them resilient. The Garden is learning to walk in this same design—never isolated, but tethered to God-ordained relationships. We rely on churches, families, neighbors, and co-laborers, not through contracts, but calling. Partnership becomes strength, not strategy.

Sixth, the oak offers protection. Its shade cools the forest floor. Its canopy slows the wind. Under its cover, delicate species can emerge. That is what we pray the Garden becomes: not a pressure cooker, but a place of peace. A reentry point. A refuge where people can be seen, softened, and strengthened.

Finally, oaks produce fruit that carries future forests inside. Acorns feed the present, but some go further. They become trees in their own right. We measure no success in numbers, but we rejoice in multiplication. Each life transformed by God’s presence has the capacity to plant more life elsewhere. That is the quiet miracle we’re seeing unfold.

But all of this begins invisibly. That’s what Jesus taught us about the Kingdom. “The Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed... it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it is grown, it becomes a tree...” (Matthew 13:31–32). Oaks begin as acorns. Gardens begin as soil. Movements begin as whispers of yes in secret. And when the roots go deep enough, everything else becomes inevitable.

We live in a time of cultural drought. Many systems are shallow-rooted and quick to wither. There is no shortage of movements, programs, or campaigns. But few are rooted deeply enough to endure real pressure, let alone nourish others. Keystone organizations aren’t built for convenience. They are formed through surrender. They carry the slow and sacred work of cultivation. And their impact is never fully seen in their lifetime—it’s embedded in the ecosystems they steward.

The oak teaches us this: If you grow for speed, you’ll be fragile. If you grow for depth, you’ll be a shelter.

Some organizations feed the hungry. Some provide rest. But only a few become ecosystems of transformation. And those that do, like the oak, do so by staying rooted in what matters most.

So let us grow downward, not just upward. Let us welcome hiddenness. Let us become a witness of what’s possible when we give God room to root us for the long haul. For the rooted ones are the ones who will hold the future.