hospitality

December 21, 2020

No Room

When I was at the doctor’s office for a prenatal visit recently (something that is beginning to feel like a part-time job these days), I came across a diagram with two side-by-side images, one depicting the internal organs of a woman before pregnancy, and one with a child inside.

I was stunned to see the way the pregnant woman’s insides shifted and squished into odd pockets to accommodate her new resident. The bladder, I noted with special interest, was tucked underneath the baby and all but flattened. This explains so much!

I think about Mary and Joseph knocking on door after door in Bethlehem, looking for someplace that would accommodate them, only to hear over and over, “No room.” I wonder if Mary felt a twinge of irony at those words as she looked at her extravagant belly. You want to hear about no room? Please talk to my gallbladder!

But there’s a secret about hospitality—one that a woman great with child knows in an intimate way: There is never room. You have to say yes and trust that the space will grow to accommodate your guest.

True hospitality means you don’t wait until you have a bigger house, a bigger budget, a bigger heart. You don’t wait until you have more time, more margin, more furniture. You extend the invitation in faith, and trust that your space will expand, proportional to the need.

This Christmas, hospitality looks very different than it does most years. For most of us, there won’t be large gatherings, holiday parties, dinners with friends. So what does hospitality mean in the face of a pandemic and social distancing? Maybe, in reality, hospitality is smaller in scope than we think. Maybe it’s simply about making room within our crowded lives for someone who needs a little love.

This year, maybe hospitality looks like loving the people directly in your bubble. Maybe it means setting aside your crowded to-do list and making space to listen or play with Legos or whisper a prayer. Maybe it means expanding the borders of your heart to love someone who isn’t particularly lovable. Maybe it means saying yes to something you know is right before you’ve figured out exactly how to pull it off.

Maybe hospitality means saying yes before the space is there, before the energy is there, before the love is there . . . and trusting that God will make a space where there wasn’t any before.

Into this world, this demented inn in which there is absolutely no room for him at all, Christ comes uninvited.
Thomas Merton

August 18, 2017

Hospitality Lessons

Make yourself at home.

It’s something we let slide off our lips without thinking about what it really means. If we invite someone else to be at home in our space, does it mean they can . . .

leave the toilet seat up?
say whatever they want to without filtering?
eat ice cream right out of the container?

There are so many reasons not to invite people into our homes—we’re busy, they’re busy; we’re insecure about our cooking/cleaning/house in general. Besides, welcoming someone into our space makes us vulnerable. It exposes not only our homes but our hearts. It puts us uncomfortably close to another person . . . and opens the possibility that we could get hurt.

So why bother? Why not just go to our own homes, close the garage door, and eat Chinese takeout while watching Netflix?

For the past several months I’ve been getting hospitality lessons from an unexpected source—one who is currently the size of a jackfruit. (Whatever that is—apparently by 40 weeks, the pregnancy books are running out of comparable produce.) This baby growing inside me may not be able to talk, but already this kid is showing me what it looks like to provide a welcoming space for another person.

I’ve been surprised over these past nine months how much a tiny person requires to make him- or herself at home. Before our child was the size of an olive, this little one had the power to wreak havoc on my entire body. How, I wondered, could someone so small make my usually efficient self ready to fall asleep at every red light?

But even with the roller-coaster hormones, stretching skin, and shrinking bladder, it has been a gift to learn hospitality from my new little tenant. Here are some of the things I’m discovering:

Hospitality isn’t always comfortable, but it brings great joy.

This little person is stretching me, physically and emotionally and spiritually. But it’s a good stretching—the kind that broadens the boundaries of my heart and makes me think beyond myself. And the love that comes out of this hospitable stretching, whether it’s for a baby or a next-door neighbor, is worth every moment of discomfort.

It doesn’t have to be perfect.

If we waited for ideal circumstances before allowing someone in—either a baby or a houseguest—we would never extend the invitation. Our presence is more important than the perfectly themed nursery or the perfect multi-course dinner, so we just have to dive in and trust that God will give us what we need, moment by moment.

Don’t wait until you have room to invite someone in.

Each month I say, “I have no idea where this baby is going to go!” But somehow, miraculously, my body expands to accommodate the growth. And I think the same is true about welcoming people into our homes and our lives: our capacity grows to fit the need.

Hospitality gives us a peek into God’s heart.

Of all the ways God could have made himself known to us, he chose an extraordinarily ordinary entrance: in the form of a baby. He made his home in us , and he gives us the privilege of inviting him in. And one day he will extend the ultimate hospitality—by inviting us into the home he’s prepared for us.

On that day when he welcomes us into our eternal home, I have to wonder if this will be one of the first things he says:

Make yourself at home.

August 12, 2015

Nesting

The day after we unloaded a U-haul with all our earthly possessions and deposited everything at our new home, my father-in-law posed this question to Daniel and me: “Hey, do you guys have a chainsaw?”

At that point I wasn’t even sure where I could find two matching shoes, but even if I’d done a better job labeling the boxes, I was pretty sure the answer was no. We’d never had our own yard before, which meant we were pretty lacking in everything power-tool related. Besides, why would we need a chainsaw?

As it turned out, Daniel’s dad had identified a knotty pine tree that was encroaching on the driveway of our new house, and he was ready to take it down. The guys went outside to scope it out, only to return soon than I’d expected.

“No need for a chainsaw now,” Daniel said.

“Really? Why not?”

“Come here. I’ll show you.”

And there, in the lowest branch of the tree, was a dove perched on her nest.

“We can’t take down a tree with a nest in it,” Daniel said.

He was right. We’d spent the past 48 hours packing and unpacking, carrying unwieldy objects up and down stairs, and generally boycotting sleep to get everything settled. We were just beginning to realize how much work is involved in making a house a home. How could we have the heart to evict our feathered tenant?

So we let her stay.

We’ve been causing quite a commotion in the dove’s neighborhood ever since we moved in—hauling in boxes, revving up a borrowed lawnmower to cut the grass, cleaning long-neglected gutters. But Mama Bird just sits on her perch—not squawking at us, but not budging either.

I greet her each evening when I get home from work, walking past her home and into mine. She and I have a lot in common, I think. We’re both feathering our nests, trying to make them comfortable and hospitable and conducive to life.

This is the first home my husband and I have bought together, and there’s something special to be said for that. He moved into the condo I’d bought before we got married, and while that was practical and logical and right for that season, it never really felt like ours.

And what I’m learning as we settle into this place together is perhaps the same thing our nesting guest intuitively knows: It’s more about the ones in the nest than how perfect the nest itself is. Our nest is a little messy (there are boxes still to unpack and items flung rather haphazardly in closets), and it certainly isn’t Pinterest worthy, with its mismatched color schemes and kitchen tile that dates to circa 1987.

But that’s okay. I want this place to be a haven—a place where everyone who lives here can recharge and soak up grace and love and get ready to go into the big world. And I want it to be a place of hospitality—a place where everyone who walks through the door feels wrapped in warmth and welcome, a place where they get a taste of grace.

I want to remember that it’s not about the nest; it’s about the ones the nest is there to protect and nurture.

So we still have a knotty pine tree in our front yard—along with one wise bird who has a lot to teach me about feathering my nest.

Home is the nicest word there is.
Laura Ingalls Wilder

November 1, 2013

Book of the Month Club: Bread and Wine

Thanks to everyone who joined our book of the month club for October! Our selection was Bread and Wine by Shauna Niequist, which I introduced here.

Here’s how it works: I’ll throw out a few discussion topics, and you can respond about these topics or anything else you’d like to talk about in the comment section below.

Discussion #1: A Call to Hospitality
I love the way Shauna reclaims eating together and sharing meals with others as not just something we do to sustain our bodies, but something that feeds the soul as well. “Food is one of the ways we love each other,” she says, “and the table is one of the most sacred places we gather.”

Having grown up with a grandma who can do a hundred magical things with a pie crust and her bare hands, and a mom who made every person who crossed the threshold of her home feel welcomed and loved, I have always understood at some intuitive level that the intersection of food and home is where relationships are cultivated and love takes root. But I appreciate the way Shauna puts those feelings into words and affirms the sacredness of hospitality in a world that is increasingly busy and fragmented.

“While it’s not strictly about food, it doesn’t happen without it. Food is the starting point, the common ground, the thing to hold and handle, the currency we offer to one another.”

What are your experiences with hospitality and making food for other people? Was that a priority in your family when you were growing up? How have you done things the same or differently in your own home?

Discussion #2: A Place for Vulnerability
One of the highlights of the book for me was the way Shauna emphasized that making food and inviting people into your home isn’t a performance; it’s an opportunity to create space for authenticity. When we break bread together, we can slow down, be real, let down our guard.

I loved her tradition of sharing toasts on someone’s birthday—saying something that person has brought to your life in the last year or a prayer for the year ahead: “The heart of hospitality is creating space for these moments, protecting that fragile bubble of vulnerability and truth and love. It’s all too rare that we tell the people we love exactly why we love them—what they bring to our lives, why our lives are richer because they’re in it.”

I also appreciated the way she made peace with things not going according to her own plans and being open to what God had ordained for the gathering:

“It was just as it should have been, and nothing close to what I could have planned. And that’s what makes a good party—when the evening and the people and the conversation and the feeling in the room are allowed to be whatever they need to be for that night.”

Have you ever hosted a party that didn’t go at all the way you planned or expected? Were there any unexpected blessings in that experience?

Discussion #3: Embracing a Healthy Relationship with Food
Shauna’s perspective on having a healthy relationship with food was very refreshing, and I especially appreciated her take on how there are some seasons to fast and other seasons to feast.

“I’m learning that feasting can only exist healthfully—physically, spiritually, and emotionally—in a life that also includes fasting. . . . The very things you think you need most desperately are the things that can transform you the most profoundly when you do finally decide to release them.”

Do you agree that we all need seasons of both feasting and fasting in our lives? What does that balance look like for you?

Discussion #4: Recipes
If I had one complaint about the book, it’s that I sometimes felt like a kitchen slouch when I read it. I know that wasn’t the author’s intent, and I realize the principles apply whether you’re whipping up homemade risotto or making Kraft macaroni and cheese, but sometimes I felt like I couldn’t relate to her stories about dinner parties with lobster and steak au poivre with cognac sauce.

That said, I did attempt a few of the recipes, and I appreciated the author’s conversational tone as she talked readers through the recipes. I felt like I had a sister in the kitchen, coaching me through the steps. I made the lentil soup, which wasn’t too hard, even for the likes of me. When my husband tried his first spoonful, he said tactfully, “It tastes like it’s good for me.” But to his credit, he ate it all. I also attempted the blueberry crisp (I made mine it peaches), the scrambled eggs with goat cheese (pretty good, but I prefer my eggs more solid than the recipe calls for), and the toffee (which I’m pretty sure I botched somehow because it just may crack your teeth). There are several others I’d still like to try.

Did you try any of the recipes? How did they turn out? Which one should I attempt next?

Rating ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
I would give the book 5 stars. I loved the bits about relationships, hospitality, faith, and the sacredness of the table. (Although I think I needed the “for dummies” version for the recipes.)

How many stars would you give the book?

{Remember: I’ll send a free book to one randomly selected commenter!}