The Village Collective: If You’re Wondering What We’re Doing Here

Lately we’ve heard thoughtful questions from church friends, volunteers, and curious neighbors: What is The Village Collective, really? What’s the purpose? Is it helping?

Those are fair questions. They come from people who care about this congregation, this building, and this town. So here’s my best, honest answer - spoken to the wider community we love.

The Village Collective is a table where tired families can breathe for a couple of hours on a Wednesday night. It’s a hot meal they didn’t have to plan or pay for, a room arranged with crayons and blocks, a welcome table where we learn names - parents and kids alike - and meet people where they are. It’s a place where a shy child is greeted gently, where a plate is saved for the parent and child running late, where someone sits with your kiddos so you can make yourself a plate and eat while it’s still warm.

If you’re looking for the “church part,” you might miss it at first. There’s no sermon, no altar call, no expectation. We are careful about that, because this is for everyone.

But the ministry is everywhere: in the casserole made with love and care, in the older child playing with a younger child (future babysitter maybe?), in the volunteer who remembers a toddler’s favorite color, in the patient laughter when the room is a little loud.

Hospitality is the theology here. Love-without-strings is the point.

Who comes? Parents who are stretched thin - financially, emotionally, logistically. Single caregivers. Families navigating ADHD, autism, and other needs. People who aren’t sure they belong anywhere. They come because they trust Harmony Garden, they trust Jackson First United Methodist Church, because a friend told them, because they saw Heyyy Pretty Mommas online, because someone said, “There’s dinner. Just come.”

They are not necessarily looking for church. They are looking for community. And that’s exactly what we’re offering.

What does success look like? Not headcounts or conversions. Success looks like a mom who eats with two hands for the first time all week. It looks like a child who arrives dysregulated and leaves giggling because the room was predictable for them. It looks like a parent exhaling when they realize the mental list can rest for a night. It looks like someone new walking in and being met with, “We’re glad you’re here.” Those moments are small - and they are everything.

To the gentle skeptics: I hear you. You want to know if this investment matters.

I’ve spent nearly two decades sitting with families like these.

When my own children were little, I made my mom friends through the community I created - my early childhood music classes.

In those days, it was always a little complicated for me. People technically “paid” to be my friends - through class fees and registration forms - but somewhere between the scarves, songs, and circle time, those moms became my people. They were the ones who helped me raise my kids, who knew when I was tired, who laughed with me when things fell apart.

I often think of them now. Many of their children are older, like mine (some have even graduated or are seniors now!) I hope they see these blog posts and remember what that season felt like - and know that they are still welcome here. The door is still open. The community has simply changed shape.

Back then, connection came through classes. Today, it comes through shared meals, shared music, and free gatherings - no payment, no strings, just presence and love. Those families built their trust in us years ago, and that trust remains. This same people that once held songs and playtime now holds laughter, conversation, and dinner tables - the same spirit, just a new form.

Transformation doesn’t always show up in a photo or a spreadsheet.

It shows up in returning faces. In fewer apologies and more conversation. In the way a building starts to feel like home to people who once hovered at the doorway. That is slow, holy work.

And yes, it’s inconvenient. For families and for volunteers. The pots are heavy. The Wednesday was already long. The drive is across town. But inconvenience is the cost of community - for all of us. Every inconvenient yes is a brick in this village we’re building together.

If you’ve been wondering how to help, here’s my invitation: give what you have.

Give an hour to set tables or to greet families when they arrive. Give a hand in the kitchen. Give a smile at the welcome table, a steady presence in the craft and activity room, a gentle “I’ve got them - go make your plate.” Give financially if that’s your lane. Give your patience when the room is noisy and your grace when timing isn’t perfect. Most of all, give your presence. The ministry lives in the showing up.

We’re not trying to turn Wednesday night into Sunday morning. We’re trying to make sure that, in this city, there’s a dependable place where families can be fed, known, and safe. Where belonging grows in small, ordinary ways. Where the church looks like a kitchen crew and a coloring table and neighbors who remember your name.

If you’ve had questions, thank you. Questions keep us honest. Come see for yourself. Sit with us. Hold a baby. Learn a name. Help someone carry a tray.

You’ll find the purpose in the room - warm, noisy, and unmistakably human.

That’s the work. That’s the ministry. That’s how the village grows.