Editor’s note: When the collective of mothers behind this website learned of Thuy Petersen’s sandwich drive in November, they were ecstatic to learn she would run a larger initiative in December. The holiday sandwich drive would benefit The Rock Church in Elmhurst, right on Queens Blvd. It seemed like an amazing example of Queens-borough love. On Christmas Eve, she and volunteers, including their children, delivered over 2,000 sandwiches to the church, way above her expected target. As the last volunteer was leaving, elderly seniors were already lining up hoping to collect a nutritious meal. We asked Thuy, a local serial entrepreneur (who most recently launched KidsGiving, an educational, philanthropic and civic engagement platform), to give us a behind-the-scenes of what it took to make this miracle happen, and how it all started here in Forest Hills.
The way our sandwich drive works today wasn’t how we originally planned.
What it has become grew out of real life—out of being a mom, out of a pandemic, out of wanting my kids to understand that giving back isn’t something you wait to do later, when schedules are lighter or life feels more manageable.
Back in 2021, we still had House of Playful Soul open, and it was Covid. Everything felt fragile. We wanted to gather and do something good together, but we had to do it carefully. We hosted a small in-person sandwich-making event called KidsGiving because it mattered to us that kids were actively involved—not just watching generosity happen, but participating in it.
We knew not everyone could come. So we offered another way in.
Families could make sandwiches at home and drop them off so we could deliver them together. We wanted the effort to feel as inclusive as possible.
And then something unexpected happened.
At our in person event, we saw toddlers join in. Eighteen-month-olds working to spread peanut butter on bread with help from their parents. Parents slowing down long enough to explain what they were doing—and why it mattered.
Watching that, I was taken right back to when my oldest, Hudsen, was two.
I remember wanting to give back as a family and not knowing where we fit. Most service opportunities didn’t feel built for families with very young kids—or for parents already stretched thin. Standing there in 2021, watching toddlers participate with ease, I realized this was the thing I had been searching for.
Not an event.
An invitation for families to give back together.
Year after year, that invitation has slowly grown and this year, it showed up in ways I couldn’t have planned.
A couple of weeks before delivery, I received a message with photos attached. A third-grader had made a flyer to help spread the word about the sandwich drive. His kindergartener brother had written a letter to his principal and teachers, inviting them to his house to make sandwiches because they were hosting a sandwich making!
Seeing those images stopped me.
This wasn’t something adults were pushing. Kids were leading. This was a family that had been part of this effort since our very first year, and seeing how it had grown into a tradition they wanted to share with others quietly delivered on everything we dreamed of when we started six years ago.
The following week, the school’s parent coordinator pulled me aside to say the staff planned to organize sandwich-making themselves. That single letter sparked an entire school to join in. Nearly 400 sandwiches came from that one act of invitation.
It had never occurred to me to invite the school. I tend to compartmentalize different parts of my life. A five-year-old reminded me how unnecessary that is—and how powerful it can be when you simply open the door wider.
A few days before collections began, another parent reached out, apologizing for being late and asking if there was still room. Their daughter was having friends over for her birthday and wanted to make sandwiches together.
I remember reading that email and smiling.
This wasn’t about squeezing in one more family or adding to a number. It was a parent reimagining a birthday as an act of service. A child choosing to gather her friends around something meaningful. An invitation being extended—not just to participate, but to belong.
And once again, the answer was yes.
Year after year, I’ve come to love the drop-off moments—pauses to reconnect with families and meet new ones who share the same heart. But when House of Playful Soul first closed, I wasn’t sure how this tradition would carry forward. Asking families to drop off sandwiches at my house felt vulnerable. Unpolished.
I’m so glad I pushed through that discomfort and opened the door anyway.
This year, the response grew beyond anything we planned for. We aimed to surpass 1,000 sandwiches, and our community told us to stop aiming low. As sign-ups climbed past 2,000, I found myself doing mental math late at night—cars, fridge space, delivery timing—realizing we couldn’t do it alone.
Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to me. But this community has a way of meeting you when you’re honest about what you need.
So I asked.
And people stepped up.
The same family who has been with us since the beginning—whose children created invitations and flyers—offered to help store over 800 sandwiches they made at their sandwich making party and deliver.
A family joining us for the first time hosted a reunion playdate from their pre-K class and helped store and deliver alongside us.
By Christmas Eve morning, sandwiches had already been arriving for over a day. In the final hour before delivery, the doorbell rang nonstop. My kids were home, announcing each arrival with pure joy: “More sandwiches!” Bags lined the hallway and kitchen. The fridge had filled the day before, and we were making space in the cold garage.
The house was loud. Messy. And full of sandwiches.
The drive to the church felt familiar—equal parts anxiousness and gratitude. I talked with my kids about how much the drive had grown this year, who we were helping, and how many people said yes along the way.
Inside, two empty tables waited. Parents and kids unloaded together, carrying bags and boxes nearly as big as some of the kids themselves. No instructions were needed. Bag by bag, the tables filled.
I stood there for a moment, watching it all unfold.
A volunteer asked how we began such a large collection and offered to turn on the lights for the kids. As we were directed toward the stage, rows of trees lit up, and in front of the stage sat rows of chairs waiting for Christmas Eve mass. Across from our tables of sandwiches were tables full of presents—gifts the church collected for children who might not otherwise have any this holiday.
It was clear we were part of something bigger.
This wasn’t about how many sandwiches we made or how smoothly the logistics landed. It was about what happened along the way—families making room in their already-full lives, children realizing they are capable of helping, and a community responding to a simple invitation with trust and heart.
When Hudsen was two, I couldn’t find a way for us to give back together. What I was really looking for was something simple—something that met families where they were, without asking for more than they had to give.
Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, we created the very thing I once wished existed.
A way for families to gather around their own kitchen tables.
A way for children to lead with kindness.
A way for community to grow—not because it was perfectly planned, but because someone opened the door and said, you’re invited.
And it turns out, that’s all it ever needed to be.
