Flaws and all: a reflection on real hospitality

My Dearest Friend,

You and I, we share a love for hosting, for inviting people into our lives, our homes, and filling them with good food and a sense of belonging around the table. We love the planning, the preparation, the results—and most of all, the people. We share a love for Shauna Niequist and others like her. We’ve even cohosted dinner parties in your home.

How many times have I been on the receiving end of your hospitality—staying in your home, sipping coffee as we woke up together, teaching you how to program your coffee maker (you’re welcome, by the way), sitting on your sofa feeling more at home than I do in my own house, especially in those seasons when I didn’t have a place to call my own. I’ve gleaned so much from the ways you’ve hosted me, from watching you host others in your home.

One thing I’ve yet to master is your laid-back approach to hosting. It reminds me of something I read last Advent: if our homes are full of the presence of Jesus, the Prince of Peace, shouldn’t the result be an atmosphere of peace? (a very loose paraphrase—sorry, John Mark Comer). The question seemed to tug at my heart. When I host, do I create an atmosphere of peace? Or does my need for perfection, my underlying tight grip on control, create the opposite?

I like to think of myself as a good host, but what makes a good host? A skilled cook? An aesthetically pleasing home? A clean, decluttered space? An overabundance of food? I value all of these, but I don’t think they make a good host. I’m realizing hospitality is more than that.

It’s different than that.

I remember when Jackson and I lived in Central Asia, a family that had a horse farm, multiple dogs, nine or so children—some adopted, some biological—befriended us. They lived outside the city, so we didn’t go to their home all that much, but six years later, I still distinctly remember how their home felt.

It was a little cluttered, chaotic with kids running in different directions, an animal or five underfoot, and you were covered in dog (or cat?) hair by the time you left. But it was so tangibly full of peace. I loved that home, that family. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t perfectly clean or perfectly prepared for company. I felt more at peace surrounded by loving chaos than anywhere else in Central Asia. It was beat up and a bit worn, yes, but comfortable, full of love, and palpably Spirit-filled.

Ever since I read Rosaria Butterfield’s The Gospel Comes with a Housekey*, I’ve loved welcoming people into my home and loving them through hospitality, flaws and all.

Stay for dinner, we have enough! You need a place to stay? We’ve got a guest room or a big comfy couch! Our home is open to you, and my hope is that it’s a place you feel safe to just be—to let your hair down and watch a Harry Potter marathon or to unburden through deep, vulnerable conversation.

But here’s the part that’s scary to me—the “flaws and all” part. I give myself anxiety by stressing over everything being just so before I host a big dinner so that I and my guests can thoroughly enjoy ourselves. I exhaust my poor brain thinking through all the variables and taking action to control each possible outcome—which doesn’t work, by the way. I keep myself from delighting in the preparation, in the souls dwelling in my home for a time.

But if what we’re trying to do is genuinely and authentically invite people into our lives, whether it’s for a night of feasting or a month in our guest room—then I don’t need to put on a performance for them. This, in fact, would be inauthentic, and I greatly value authenticity.

I love the way Jesus lived. He invited people to just live with Him. He didn’t change His behavior based on the amount of people surrounding Him—whether He was alone or in a crowd of thousands or in an intimate gathering of his closest friends, His character and way of life was consistent.

Jesus lived authentically and invited people into that, into the mundane and the marvelous.

Tonight, I have fourteen people eating at my house. It’s a Sabbath dinner, and the guest list spun a bit out of my control. The house won’t be perfect when they arrive. I don’t even know if the meatloaf will be ready in time.

But this is my life. This is my home. This is my family. This is me.

And just like we’ve always believed, the table is big enough. Just shove the clutter aside.

You’re invited in.

*If you haven’t read it, read it.

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