Sometimes It Takes Someone Else’s Community

Sometimes we don’t fully appreciate the power of community until we have the opportunity to experience someone else’s.

This weekend I attended a wedding in a beautiful rural coastal town in Rhode Island. The church, the reception, and the after-party were all within about a mile of one another. It was the kind of place where neighbors wave as they drive by, children run comfortably from one yard to another, and people know one another well enough to have a neighborhood group text. It wasn’t just beautiful—it felt connected.

As I looked around throughout the day, I realized I wasn’t just watching two people get married. I was witnessing the remarkable influence a strong community can have over the course of a lifetime.

The bride grew up in a close-knit town about an hour away. Since then, life had taken her to new places, new careers, and new adventures. Yet when her wedding day arrived, the people who had known her from the very beginning came back. Her elementary school teachers. Childhood neighbors. Friends from school. Families who had watched her grow up. More than thirty years had passed, but they were still there to celebrate her joy.

It made me think about the invisible threads that connect us. We often don’t realize how profoundly our communities shape us until we look back years later and discover those relationships are still there, quietly waiting to celebrate our milestones and help us through life’s challenges.

Then came my favorite moment of the weekend.

The bride’s lifelong friend hosted the after-party and had planned for nearly everything fifty guests could possibly need. Nearly everything.

Somehow, there was no ketchup.

Without a second thought, she sent her adorable eight-year-old son next door to ask the neighbors if they had any. A few minutes later he came marching triumphantly across the lawn, proudly carrying a sandwich bag stuffed with ketchup packets collected from McDonald’s, Chick-fil-A, Wendy’s, and who knows where else. He had completed his mission and, for a brief shining moment, became the hero of the evening.

Would we all have survived without ketchup? Of course.

But that wasn’t really what happened.

What happened was that someone asked for help. A neighbor happily gave it. A little boy delighted in being entrusted with an important job. Everyone smiled. It was such a small moment, but it perfectly captured the generosity and interconnectedness that make a community feel like home.

It reminded me that communities are not built through grand gestures. They are built through thousands of small acts of kindness that often go unnoticed. Borrowing a cup of sugar. Checking on an elderly neighbor after a snowstorm. Bringing soup to someone who is sick. Offering a ride. Sharing a laugh over the fence. Lending ketchup.

Those ordinary moments become the stories we remember.

As I drove home, I found myself thinking about Ashby.

One of the things I love most about our town is that we still believe in knowing our neighbors. We wave to one another. We volunteer. We support local organizations. We celebrate together and grieve together. We quietly look after one another in ways that often never make the headlines but make all the difference in people’s lives.

Libraries are part of that story.

Every day the library becomes a place where people make new friends, reconnect with old ones, discover shared interests, and find support when they need it most. Whether it’s a child attending Story Time, someone joining a book club, neighbors working together on a community project, or simply two people striking up a conversation while browsing the shelves, these small interactions strengthen the fabric of our town.

A library is so much more than books. It is one of the places where community grows.

Perhaps that’s why the little boy with the bag of ketchup packets has stayed with me. His mission wasn’t really about condiments. It was about belonging. He knew that when someone needed help, the neighbors would answer. He expected kindness because kindness was simply how his community worked.

What a wonderful way to grow up.

May we continue building that kind of community here in Ashby—one conversation, one helping hand, one shared story, and yes, even one borrowed packet of ketchup at a time.