open house

"We must have the gift of hospitality." my husband groaned in resignation about an hour ago.
"You think so?" I asked suspiciously.
"Well we MUST!" he insisted. "Why else would this keep happening to us?"

"This" refers to the two teenagers who are spending the night tonight, the one who does not happen to be here tonight but practically lives here, the two little homeless urchins who have found shelter under our roof for the last five months, the six relatives who are dropping back in tomorrow (they were here last weekend), and the phone call we just received from friends with four children who just happen to be in our part of the country and wondered if they could spend the next two nights here. (Incidentally, we are leaving for the airport at three AM tomorrow and were not planning to even be home before 6 PM. Our company will precede us!) We have seven children of our own, a rickety old house, one bathroom and four bedrooms (two of them tiny and unheated.) So we really have no trouble stressing our house to the breaking point without any outside help, but it seems to find us anyway.

In the nearly 22 years we have been married we have shared our home with John, Bob, Greg, Todd, Jeff, Oscar, Masaki, Sally, Mayu, Eriko, Maria, Ayumi, J and S. John moved in two months after our wedding (technically still the honeymoon phase, but at least he worked nights). Everyone else followed. Our guests have lived with us from 2 weeks to 12 months. Most stayed about 6 months. Two were from Spain; four were from Japan. Some were students, some were unemployed, one was bank executive. Some paid rent; most did not. We cried when some of them left; we celebrated when others moved on.

Our guests have flooded our house by falling asleep in the bathtub with the water running, cut our dog's hair without our foreknowlege, joined us nightly on the end of our bed to watch Benny Hill reruns. (That was a Long Time ago.) One particularly hirsute young man used to walk around the house half the day in a short, faded bathrobe and dingy athletic socks, dining on leftovers annointed with ketchup for his breakfast. Others have taught our toddlers Spanish, helped paint and plaster, cleaned our house for our big Christmas Eve party, taught us to enjoy opera, served us octopus and sushi. One was present at the birth of our second son.

We have also shared harder times with our guests. One attempted suicide while he lived with us. We visited him in ICU and later in the psych hospital. My children grew to know the visiting room there well. One had a struggle he never disclosed to us, but a torn brown paper wrapping on a piece of his mail let us in on his secret. Another young man developed a serious crush on my husband and openly competed with the children and me for his attention. Another lived with us while recovering from an extremely painful divorce. A neighbor used our home as a refuge when her boyfriend choked her until her eyes were bloodshot or bruised her face so badly she could not go to work. She could have stayed with us longer, but she always went back.

All these years we have always lived in houses a real estate agent might describe as having "a lot of potential" or "perfect for the handyman." We have never had more than one bathroom. We have always had unheated nether regions. We have never had a dishwasher. It doesn't seem to matter. People come anyway. Our house is not especially comfortable, but it must be comforting. It certainly seems to be inviting.

Throughout this succession of guests we have welcomed seven children into our home. And I think it is not a coincidence that we have lots of guests and lots of children. I remember reading once (I don't know if this is historically accurate or just a nice story) that in Puritan New England new babies were given pilllows or blankets embroidered with the words, "Welcome Little Stranger." Babies are in some ways easier to welcome into our homes than full grown adults, but they require a certain quotient of hospitality, nonetheless.

It is so clear to me that God has given us this unsolicited gift. In my flesh I would never have chosen to live in a home with a revolving door! I CRAVE solitude and quiet (though I have to admit I'm OK without order!) I am never happier than on an evening at home when it's "just us." I hate bumping elbows at the table and I loathe making conversation at 7:30 AM. Nevertheless, when a new opportunity arises share bed and board, we never have to discuss it too long without coming to, "Well, I guess they could stay here." (Later we say, "What were we thinking??" but we do it over and over again.)

So, I wonder, have we ever entertained angels unaware? I don't think so, but would we know if we had? Who's to say angels don't like ketchup?