Weeds or Witnesses?
How a One-Acre Prairie Reveals the Slow Genius of God
By Josh Singleton | Founder and Lead Cultivator, The Neighborhood Garden Project
The Garden Project is not a curated display for performance. It is a cultivated edge—a living invitation where God’s intent meets each person’s becoming. What may appear to the world as wild or overgrown is, in truth, a space of deep intentionality. Here, the ground is not manicured into submission. It is stewarded with purpose. The growth is not forced, but allowed. The mess is not neglect. It is mercy.
This reflection is rooted at Emmanuel Episcopal Church, the host site for our second location—a sacred piece of earth that is helping reclaim what God always intended for His people and His creation. This one-acre prairie does not stand as a monument to what has been achieved, but as a living altar of what is still becoming.
This edge—between wild and tended, between past and promise—is where the sacred work of restoration takes root. It is not where people are fixed. It is where they are freed. The soil bears witness to this: that everyone who enters carries a story, and that no one is beyond the reach of cultivation. Just like in the prairie, where frog fruit spreads low to protect, where ragweed breaks the soil open, and where pink evening primrose blooms with gentle resilience, every person in this garden carries a role, a season, and a possibility.
What if the so-called weeds in a pocket prairie weren’t mistakes, but messengers? What if every blade, bloom, and burr had something to say about the land, the past, and what’s still possible? In the slow, steady unfolding of a one-acre prairie, we begin to see that restoration doesn’t come in neat rows or instant results. It comes layered, rhythmic, and often hidden in plain sight. These plants—native, naturalized, and transitional—do more than survive. They heal, host, and hold. They reveal what’s happening beneath the surface, and they prepare the way for what’s to come. This is not a collection of weeds. This is a community of witnesses.
Chinese fountain grass, with its arching green blades and soft seed heads, is often dismissed in native restoration spaces because it isn’t indigenous. But its role can still be meaningful. A warm-season perennial from East Asia, it stabilizes disturbed soil with a fibrous root system and provides early shelter to insects while preventing erosion. Though it lacks the biodiversity value of native grasses, it often arrives in transitional moments, where land is just beginning to come back to life. In that sense, it’s not a threat, but a placeholder. It teaches us that temporary coverings can be part of the process, as long as we don’t let them become permanent substitutions for deeper-rooted, more connected life.
Then there’s Cuman ragweed, a plant with a hard reputation. Known mostly for its allergy-triggering pollen, it’s rarely seen for what it truly is—a pioneer. This perennial forb shows up precisely where the soil has been compacted, overworked, or abandoned. Its deep taproots break open the hardpan, stir microbial activity, and prepare the ground for those that follow. Birds like quail feast on its seeds. Deer nibble its leaves when forage is low. Ragweed doesn’t pretend to be pretty, but it shows up faithfully where healing must begin. It reveals brokenness, not as a judgment, but as a starting point. When ragweed rises, it’s not a sign of failure—it’s the land asking for help.
Running low across the soil, frog fruit is often unnoticed unless you know what to look for. Its creeping runners form a living mat, rooting at each node and covering bare earth with protection. This humble native groundcover produces small, pale flowers that attract butterflies, bees, and hoverflies. Even more, it serves as a larval host plant for buckeye and phaon crescent butterflies. Frog fruit is not showy, but it is faithful. It reveals a covering grace—how restoration often begins low to the ground, unnoticed, where life is most fragile. It reminds us that healing starts by sheltering what’s vulnerable.
And then there’s vervain. With its tall, slender stems and delicate lavender blooms, vervain brings vertical rhythm to the prairie. It’s a sign that pollinator pathways are opening and diversity is increasing. Revered in ancient medicine and ritual, vervain was seen as a sacred herb, used for healing and for prophecy. Today, it feeds native bees and butterflies while quietly signaling that succession is underway. Vervain reveals upward movement. It tells us that the prairie is no longer just surviving—it’s reaching.
Velvetleaf mallow adds another layer to the story. Often growing near the margins of cultivated and wild spaces, its yellow blooms and deep roots speak both medicinal and ecological language. Used in traditional medicine for inflammation and wounds, it also supports soil health and insect diversity. Mallow doesn’t demand attention, but it steadily works beneath the surface, contributing to microbial life and anchoring loose ground. It reveals that healing often happens slowly, quietly, and at the edges.
Into this already rich mosaic comes pink evening primrose. Its delicate petals, opening in the cool of morning or dusk, attract long-tongued pollinators and hoverflies. But beyond its beauty, primrose is known for thriving in compacted, neglected soil. It asks for little, yet gives much. It’s also been used for centuries in teas and tonics, particularly for calming and balancing. When primrose blooms, it reveals that beauty can emerge from pressure, and that softness can be a strength. It reminds us that grace under stress is a powerful form of resilience.
Shameplant, or mimosa, adds a different kind of intelligence to the land. Its feathery compound leaves fold in response to touch—a botanical phenomenon called thigmonasty. But it doesn’t just respond—it contributes. As a nitrogen-fixing legume, mimosa enriches the soil, converting atmospheric nitrogen into plant-available nutrients. Its presence signals underground restoration, even when it appears shy or retiring. Mimosa reveals that sensitivity is not weakness. It’s awareness. It plays a quiet, unseen role in rebuilding fertility and preparing the land for others.
Swamp smartweed stands tall in the wetter zones of the prairie. It’s not showy, but its slender white flowers feed pollinators while its seeds sustain birds and waterfowl. Smartweed roots hold moisture zones together, stabilize ditches, and mark where water gathers. Its medicinal history speaks to its use in inflammation and wound healing, and its ecological presence ensures that the wet places don’t get washed away. Smartweed reveals the landscape’s low points—the places where runoff collects and nutrients might otherwise be lost. It shows us that the places we think of as “too wet” are often the most fertile when held with care.
Together, these plants form more than a patchwork. They form a living choreography—each one responding to a different cry in the soil, a different need in the ecosystem, a different moment in time. Some are first responders, showing up in the wreckage to stabilize and aerate. Others are long-haulers, quietly establishing deep roots that make way for multigenerational fruitfulness. Some bloom to feed. Some spread to shield. Some arrive to provoke attention to forgotten corners. Their functions overlap, but they do not compete. They operate not from scarcity, but from design—each plant filling a role that another cannot. They compensate for each other’s limits and magnify each other’s strengths. This is not random abundance. This is Kingdom order—layered in a way that mirrors how God reveals truth, healing, and identity over time. Each layer builds upon the last, not erasing it, but deepening it. This is not a hierarchy but a harmony, where the earliest arrivals create space for what comes next, and the fullness of life is only seen when all the layers are honored. It’s responsive because it listens before it speaks, and generative because it multiplies life instead of demanding results.
In this way, the prairie reveals a divine blueprint. Restoration isn’t built on speed, efficiency, or appearances. It unfolds through relationship. Through waiting. Through interdependence. It doesn’t move at the pace of productivity—it moves at the pace of trust. These plants don’t just grow; they testify. They testify that real healing happens through cooperation, not control. That recovery is not a solo event, but a communal rhythm. And that what the world often tries to uproot—what it deems unworthy or unkempt—might just be the very thing God is using to rebuild the foundation.
So the next time you see ragweed breaking the soil, or frog fruit holding the ground, or primrose offering beauty in unlikely places—pause. Ask what it’s revealing. Ask what God might be showing through its presence. These aren’t weeds. They’re witnesses. Each one a living parable, pointing to the nature of true restoration.
This is what sets the Garden Project apart. It is not a program to be managed, but a living parable to be stewarded. Not a place of forced fruit, but of faithful process. A cultivated edge that reveals heaven’s intention on earth. It’s where presence takes priority over performance. Where slowness becomes strength. Where people, like the plants, are not labeled by what they produce, but received for who they are becoming.
And in that kind of soil, God is glorified. Because here, in this quiet convergence of plants and people, no one is dismissed. No one is discarded. Everyone belongs. Everyone is becoming who they were always meant to be.
