The Folks That Show

Old Man Jenkins used to say, “Don’t go cryin’ over spilled milk when there’s a whole cow in the barn.”

As a kid, I thought he was saying something just to be funny. It took me a few years—and a few bruised egos—to understand what he meant.

It was mid-July, the kind of night where the sunset stretches out like it’s got nowhere to be. I was sittin’ on a folding chair behind the community center in town, fiddlin’ with a busted mic cord, sweatin’ through my second-best shirt.

We were puttin’ on our third annual “Neighbor’s Night,” something I’d dreamt up to bring folks together—potluck, old-timey music, and some gospel if the spirit moved us. But fifteen minutes before start time, there were maybe six people scattered across the lawn, two of ’em bein’ Lu and Kenny, and neither of them count much since they show up to anything that promises potato salad.

I was discouraged, truth be told. We had made flyers, posted online, and even asked the high school choir to sing. But here we were, starin’ at a sea of empty chairs, feelin’ like maybe somebody misjudged the need for togetherness.

That’s when Miss Callie, all five feet and ninety pounds of her, tapped me on the elbow. “Honey,” she said, “never look at the empty seats. Focus on the ones who show up.”

She smiled, that same smile she gives every time she handed me a hymnal while figurin’ out which pew to sit in, before tottering off to get herself some deviled eggs.

Something about what she said sank deep in me. I stood up, took a breath, and stopped countin’ who wasn’t there. I started lookin’ at who was.

There was Fred, who hadn’t been out much since his wife passed. A couple of young parents from the new development on the east side, the Thompsons, who always bring banana pudding and a kind word.

And the choir kids? They were still showin’ up, one by one, gigglin’ and nervous but ready to sing.

So I got behind the mic and welcomed everyone as if we were at Carnegie Hall. Told a story or two. Led a prayer. The choir sang, the breeze picked up, and laughter started rollin’ across the lawn like wind through tall grass.

By sundown, I couldn’t have cared less how many chairs were empty. Because the folks who came? They were leanin’ in, they were listenin’, they were with us. And that, I reckon, is more than enough.

And maybe next year there’ll be more. Maybe not. But I’ll keep settin’ out those chairs just the same—because even if only two people show up, they deserve my whole heart, not just what’s left after disappointment.

Miss Callie helped me remember that it ain’t numbers that make a gathering matter. Its presence, intention, and neighborliness.

So if you find yourself worryin’ about empty seats in whatever it is you’re leadin’—a classroom, a church, a backyard potluck—look around. See who did show up, then give ’em your best.

That’s how you change the world, one potato salad at a time.