Inside it, there is a table.
And a chair.

That’s it.

No walls filled with explanations.
No signs telling you how to behave.
No checklist to earn your seat.

Just a place to sit.

Because before community can grow outward, something has to be rebuilt inward.

People come into that house for reflection.
For conviction.
For the quiet work of telling themselves the truth.

But the house was never the neighborhood.

The neighborhood lives outside.

Outside is where the weather changes.
Sometimes it’s warm.
Sometimes it’s uncomfortable.
Sometimes it’s loud.
Sometimes it exposes everything we try to keep hidden.

Community doesn’t collapse from bad weather.
It collapses when no one is willing to step outside.

This neighborhood is not made of houses.
It’s made of people.

People pulling up chairs next to someone they do not fully understand.
People choosing proximity over isolation.
People deciding that being right is less important than being present.

Difference isn’t the threat.
Distance is.

This neighborhood welcomes everyone.

Not because we agree.
But because connection is stronger than comfort.

When I think about community, I think about my grandmother’s house.

It sat on a corner.
Around the corner from the church.
Around the corner from the milk house.
Down the street from the school.

She knew everyone.
And everyone knew her.

People waved as they passed by.
People stopped to talk.
People showed up without an invitation.

Even if they didn’t know her name, they knew her presence.

That’s how you know you’re in a real neighborhood.
You’re seen before you’re understood.

And I know times are different now.

The world feels louder.
The divisions feel sharper.
The spaces between us feel wider.

And this is why this space exists.
Because too many conversations are happening without presence, too many opinions are formed without proximity, and too many communities are trying to grow without trust.

But I still believe this.

If we stopped building higher walls
and started pulling up more chairs,
we might realize we were never as far apart as we thought.

Community isn’t agreement.
It’s the decision not to disappear from one another.

Seeing someone clearly does not require endorsing their beliefs.
It requires acknowledging their humanity.

Sometimes eye to eye isn’t about alignment.
It’s about orientation.

Knowing where someone stands
so you know how to move with wisdom instead of resentment.

Community is not consensus.

It is respect.
It is responsibility.
It is cultivation.

It is refusing to tear down what you do not fully understand.

Trust is the engine.
And without it, everything else is just decoration.

Organizations stall without it.
Neighborhoods fracture without it.
Movements fail without it.

Trust in yourself.
Trust with peers.
Trust in leadership.
Trust inside institutions.
Trust with the communities you serve.

When trust is rebuilt, movement becomes possible.

When trust festers, nothing moves.

This is what The Neighborhood Table is.

Not a newsletter that tells you what to think.
But a place to sit.

Each issue is an invitation.
To reflect.
To act.
To build.

Read this slowly.
Sit with what resonates.
Question what challenges you.
And return when you’re ready to keep building.

Sometimes we will challenge assumptions.
Sometimes we will slow things down.
Sometimes we will name what others avoid.

This is not content to consume.
It’s a community to participate in.

We are not here to win arguments.
We are here to become better neighbors.

Tables will be set.
Chairs will be pulled up.
Bridges will be built.

And growth will always breathe togetherness.

Welcome to the neighborhood.
Pull up a seat.

P.S. If you’re not subscribed yet, consider this your open invitation. Pull up a chair and join us at The Neighborhood Table.