THE GARDEN
What three acres of dirt taught me about roots, patience, and the fruit that came in year seven.
This tomato came from our garden — one of thousands Marty and I have grown since we moved into that house in 2004. But it wasn’t always like this. For years, we were just two people standing on three acres of dirt, trying to figure out what the land would let us do.
Some things grow above ground.
Others root below.
And sometimes — what looks barren is only waiting.
DEDICATION
To Marty — who carried water tree by tree when the ground gave up. Who walked the rows with me season after season as the Holy Spirit taught us both — using the garden to show us our own lives. Every harvest is hers too.
To the redwoods — that taught us beauty without wisdom does not last.
To the persimmon — that waited seven years to feed everyone around it.
To you — tending your own garden, watching your own soil, trusting your own seasons. May you have the wisdom to know what to release — and the patience to hold what only needs one more season.
SCRIPTURE
“And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.” — Galatians 6:9 (NKJV)
“He shall be like a tree Planted by the rivers of water, That brings forth its fruit in its season, Whose leaf also shall not wither; And whatever he does shall prosper.” — Psalm 1:3 (NKJV)
“To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NKJV)
THE HOOK
2004.
We pulled into the driveway of a finished house on three acres of raw dirt.
Inside — tile laid, cabinets hung, every room done.
Outside — nothing. Just ground, wind, and work we didn’t know how to start.
Marty stood beside me looking at all of it. And I remember thinking — we’re going to live here the rest of our lives. Whatever this becomes, we’re going to have to build it ourselves.
THE STORY
I didn’t know how deep to plant a tomato. I didn’t know how much water a pepper needed. I didn’t know that some things go in the ground in October and some in April and some never go in at all in Bakersfield heat.
So I learned. Slow. Wrong first, then right. Irrigation lines redesigned more times than I can count. Beds torn out and rebuilt. Seasons where the soil beat me — and seasons where the soil gave more than we could carry.
One year the celery took over. More than we could eat, more than we could give away. Another year the tomatoes came in by the crate. We set baskets on the kitchen floor because we ran out of counter.
And then came the redwoods.
Over a hundred of them — planted in long rows along the back acres. They were beautiful. The kind of beauty you stand back from and think: yes, this is it. This is what the land was meant to be.
Marty and I walked between them in the mornings. It became our prayer walk. Shade, stillness, rows of green holding us.
But redwoods don’t belong in Bakersfield. They belong where the fog rolls in and the rain comes regular and the ground drinks deep every year. I had planted them where they could not be sustained.
The drought came.
The green went first. Rust crept up the needles from the tips. Then the dropping started — drifts of dead needles under each tree, thicker every week.
And Marty — I’ll never forget this — Marty would go out with buckets. Tree by tree. Trying to save what we had built.
One by one, they died anyway.
We had to take them out. And I grieved. Not just the trees — what they had meant. The prayer walk was gone. The beauty was gone. All that was left was ground again.
THE MOMENT
Year six, I stood in front of the persimmon tree.
It had given me nothing. Not a piece of fruit. Barely a canopy. Six years of watering, feeding, tending — and it just sat there. Barren. Stubborn.
I was done.
I told Marty: I’m taking it out. Making room for something that’ll actually produce. Six years is enough. This one’s not going to.
She didn’t argue. She just said: one more season.
I almost said no.
At six, I was ready to uproot it.
At seven, it fed everyone around us.
That seventh year, the persimmon exploded.
Fruit I couldn’t count. Orange, heavy, pulling the branches. We gave them to neighbors, to family, to anyone who’d take a bag. And I stood there with dirt on my hands and thought — I almost tore this out.
The roots had been going deeper the whole time. I just couldn’t see them.
THE DRIFT
The voice is always there. It sounds reasonable. Sounds like stewardship.
It’s not working. It never will.
You’ve given it enough. Cut your losses.
You tried. You learned. Move on.
Sometimes the voice is right. The redwoods taught me that. Some things are planted where they cannot be sustained, and wisdom says let them go.
But sometimes the voice is lying. Sometimes what looks dead is only rooting. And the hand that tears it out at year six never gets to see what year seven was building.
I know. Because I listened to it. For years.
THE REFLECTION
Church taught me the words. The garden taught me what they meant.
It taught me that abundance follows stewardship — but stewardship is slow. It taught me that beauty without wisdom doesn’t last. It taught me that some seasons look barren because the roots are still going.
And it taught me this: God is a patient grower. He doesn’t plant and walk away. He tends. He waters. He waits. When the fruit comes, it’s not because we forced it — it’s because He knew the season was coming all along.
How many people do we give up on one year too early? How many marriages. How many callings. How many children. How many pieces of ourselves.
Fruit delayed is not fruit denied.
WALKAWAY LINE
Some things are not barren — they are rooting.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
What in your life are you ready to tear out — that might only need one more season?
MY PRAYER
Heavenly Father, thank You for being the patient grower.
Thank You for the seasons I couldn’t see through — and for the roots You were building while I was watching the ground.
Give me wisdom to know what to release, and patience to hold what only needs more time.
Let me trust Your timing over my impatience.
Let me see my life the way You see a garden — not ready to harvest, but never abandoned.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
ABOUT G~
G~ writes from lived experience — exploring identity, authority, and time through the lens of faith, trial, leadership, and surrender. His reflections are not meant to condemn or hype, but to steady. Rooted in covenant, forged through adversity, and anchored under the authority of Jesus Christ, his work invites readers to examine who governs their lives — and to live intentionally under truth.
If what you’ve read resonates with your journey, feel free to reach out.
G~