WHAT YOU WATER GROWS
Some things were never meant to be planted.
In my backyard, these mushrooms appeared overnight after I overwatered late one night — uninvited, unplanted, and quietly persistent. What you overwater grows. Even when you never meant to plant it.
I stepped outside one morning with a camera in hand.
What was growing in my yard wasn’t what I planted.
But it was growing just the same.
And I realized — the same thing was happening inside me.
DEDICATION
To the Holy Spirit — the quiet Counselor who arrives before the words do. For every nudge that caused me to pause before I spoke. For every check that interrupted what I almost unleashed. Thank You for working in the space between feeling and speaking.
To Marty — our marriage has been the safest testing ground I have ever known. Christ-centered. Forgiving. A place where I could be wrong, work through it, and still be fully loved. You have taught me more about managing myself than anything else ever could.
To my friend — whose genuine desire to always communicate well has inspired me to want the same. You’ve shown me what it looks like to be thoughtful before you’re reactive.
To my sister — who pursues growth with intention and has been one of my most honest sounding boards for the conversations that go deep. Thank you for always leaning in.
“Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath; for the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God.”
— James 1:19–20 (NKJV)
THE HOOK
The photo wasn’t planned.
I stepped outside one morning — camera in hand, like I often do — and stopped.
A cluster of mushrooms had pushed through the soil right in my own yard.
Quiet… overnight… uninvited.
Textured, layered, almost beautiful — if you didn’t know what you were looking at.
One of the first lessons I learned after moving to Bakersfield:
Overwater… and you’ll grow mushrooms.
That simple truth stayed with me.
Because it wasn’t just about the yard.
It was about the heart.
What you overwater… grows.
Even when you never meant to plant it.
THE STORY
Let me be honest with you about something.
I didn’t always know how to take off the suit.
Not a suit you hang in a closet — but the one that comes with running a business for decades. The boss suit. The guy-in-charge suit. The one that reminds you every morning that you write the checks and make the calls.
That suit served me well in the boardroom.
But the moment it followed me home, it hurt the person I loved most.
I remember an afternoon in the backyard — early in our marriage. Marty had brought in a contractor to give us an estimate on some work she wanted to consider. Simple enough.
But the moment that man arrived, I went straight into business mode. Sharp. Direct. In control.
The contractor knew something was off. I could see it on his face. He had walked into something he didn’t sign up for — and he knew it before I did.
I couldn’t see it in myself.
My wife went quiet.
She could read between the lines.
What I thought was helpful — she experienced as dismissive. I had completely missed what she needed from that moment. Not a negotiator. Her husband.
She patiently and sweetly declined to move forward.
Later that day, she sat me down. Gentle. Clear. And she said the words I needed to hear more than I deserved to:
“I am not your employee.”
Drop me right there in humility — because she was right.
Something about those five words jumped me onto a completely different track. Because what I saw in her eyes that day wasn’t anger. It was hurt. And I never forgot it.
You know what it reminded me of later?
Dog detail.
If you know me, you know I have four Australian Shepherds. And dog detail is a daily chore — especially on a big lawn. When I first started doing it, I’d always scan way out ahead looking for the piles — convinced I was being careful, thorough, and totally on top of it.
And I’d inevitably step right into the one directly under my nose.
Every single time.
That afternoon with Marty was exactly like that. So focused on being effective — so locked into the way I handled everything else — that I completely missed what was right in front of me.
After you step in enough piles, you learn.
You adjust.
Because there is nothing worse than stepping into your own.
THE MOMENT
Here’s what most of us were never taught — but deal with every single day.
How to not take things personally.
Because if you want to live free from anger, this is where it starts. Not by controlling people. Not by fixing the world. But by learning to detach from the meaning you assign to what people do.
Someone cuts you off. Someone disrespects you. Someone sends that text.
And you feel it — that tightening, that heat, that reaction already building.
But here’s what’s true:
That feeling didn’t come from them.
It came from what you made it mean about you.
That’s where the fungus begins. Unseen. Beneath the surface. Feeding on insecurity, fear, unmet expectation, and wounds we never fully processed.
We think we’re reacting to people.
But we’re reacting to ourselves. To old stories. To patterns we never questioned.
And while we stay busy trying to change others — we stay stuck.
You’re not reacting to people.
You’re reacting to what you’ve been feeding.
THE TURN
There’s a space between what happens and how you respond.
Most people never find it. They live on autopilot — tethering their peace to things completely outside their control. Someone’s tone. Someone’s opinion. Someone’s silence. And then they wonder why peace feels so fragile.
But when you stretch that space, you start to see clearly.
Not everything is about you.
And even when it is — you still get to choose your response.
When your sense of worth isn’t fully anchored, everything becomes personal. A look. A tone. A door closed a little too hard. Suddenly your peace is gone — not because of what happened, but because of what it touched.
Just like those mushrooms.
They grow in the dark. They multiply in silence.
But when sunlight hits them — they wither. They retreat. They lose their grip.
Anger works the same way.
It thrives in the dark places of interpretation.
But it cannot survive in the Light.
And that Light has a name.
Jesus.
THE DRIFT
The voice that pulls us back is quiet and persistent.
They deserved that reaction. You had every right to be offended. They should have known better.
That voice sounds like justice.
It isn’t.
Justice leads somewhere. Offense only circles.
There’s a kind of reaction that looks like standing your ground on the outside — but is just pride wearing a righteous coat.
Fear of being seen as weak. Fear of what it says about us if we let it go. Fear of the silence that follows when we stop feeding what’s been feeding on us.
That drift will keep a person replaying the moment — long after the moment itself has passed.
I know because I replayed.
For years.
THE REFLECTION
This is not written in shame.
It’s written in freedom.
Peace isn’t found in a world that never irritates you. It’s found in becoming the kind of person who isn’t easily shaken.
Not because you don’t care.
But because you’ve learned to care more about your peace than your pride.
Set boundaries. Release expectations.
Not to control others. But to define yourself.
Because unspoken expectations quietly hand your peace to people who were never responsible for holding it.
You have a choice.
Feed the fungus.
Or face the Son.
Take everything personally.
Or take ownership internally.
React.
Or respond.
WALKAWAY LINE
Whatever you keep watering will grow. Whatever you surrender, God restores.
SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT
What are you watering right now?
That moment. That comment. That feeling you keep replaying.
Are you feeding it?
Or are you bringing it into the Light?
Because whatever you keep revisiting — you keep reinforcing.
And whatever you surrender — God restores.
Something to think about.
MY PRAYER
Lord Jesus,
Shine Your light into the hidden places of my heart.
Reveal every root I’ve been unknowingly watering. Every place where I’ve taken offense instead of taking responsibility.
Teach me to pause. To see clearly. To release what was never mine to carry.
Strengthen my awareness. Refine my response. Anchor my identity in You alone.
Let my peace no longer depend on people —
but rest fully in You.
Dry out what feeds anger.
And grow in me what reflects You.
In Your holy 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.
HA! Easy for you to say now... Love G ~
Outstanding!