Thoughts on Hospitality

This afternoon—one of the last in May and as delightful and bright as the rest of the month has been fickle and capricious—I toured the Alhambra for the second time. (The Alahambra is an eighth century Arab castle that overlooks Granada.) Absently following our guide—a Malaga native with an English mother who jumped fish-like in and out of Spanish and British English—I walked lazily over red brick paths, lingered under ivy-covered arches, and enjoyed a rare moment of freedom from frenetic camera-anxiety, having already documented the experience the first time. Unsure how long the tour might stretch and wanting the flexibility to grab lunch with some of the new CEA students at the end of the tour, I texted my host mother and told her I wouldn’t be eating with the family. This probably wasn’t the best or most considerate move, since lunch is such a fundamental part of the day. However, under the circumstances it didn’t seem entirely inappropriate.

Nevertheless, I was wrong. Walking in, gingerly, at five (later than I hoped) and perching on a stool in front of my host mother, I found myself momentarily speechless when her first question was, “what happened?” It wasn’t hostile or accusatory, but it was chastising. I explained nervously that the tour went late (although it didn’t go as late as I thought it might… I could have made it home for lunch but by that time I had already texted my host mother—not to mention I wanted to eat with other students), but apparently my host-mother had already prepared lunch and had included me among the number. She told me firmly, reprimandingly, that I should have told her sooner.

I had meant to text sooner, and I had thought I had sent the message a half-hour earlier, but I struggle understandably with my challengingly simplistic Spanish phone and I realized later the the message hadn’t sent. Explaining the predicament, I apologized profusely, knowing all the while that my excuses were limp and lifeless, hanging like spoiled fish at an afternoon market. Graciously, my host mother forgave me and told me it was no big deal, but after walking away and closing my bedroom door softly behind, I wanted to cry. I spent the next two hours on my bed—somewhat uncharacteristically, since I usually prefer to be in the family room reading or watching Spanish TV,  talking intermittently with my host family—too afraid or embarrassed or ashamed to face their disappointment, or at least what I imagined was disappointment.

You know what I think? I think Christianity—not to mention books, movies, and memories—romanticizes hospitality. I think hospitality is hard. It’s hard to host graciously, and it’s hard to be a gracious and thoughtful guest. This afternoon I found myself angry at myself for disappointing my host-mother, and equally angry at my host-mother for making me uncomfortable; I found myself promising to avoid any similar situations in the future. Doubtless, however, I will disappoint my host family, I will consciously or unconsciously do things that are inconsiderate. Hospitality isn’t easy for anyone: it's work. Haven’t we all eagerly anticipated the arrival of guests only to find ourselves holed up in some closet with a book trying desperately to avoid them? Work, however, doesn't have the last word. As much as hospitality is hard, it’s also generous, invitational and perhaps, above all, forgiving.

Being a guest, I sometimes find myself tip-toeing from room to room, meal to meal, avoiding anything that might be misconstrued as thoughtless or presumptuous—and failing, even with such care. As much as it takes generosity to be a host, it takes courage to be a guest too, to accept the invitation to make oneself at-home

It’s hard—and without doubt, it’s work—but it’s ultimately a blessing. It’s learning to live into the kingdom of heaven. Emulating the life of one who was homeless, one who relied on the hospitality of others, one who was guest, and one who is ultimately the Great Host, inviting us into his home with countless rooms, countless grace for those who sometimes overstep the boundaries, and the endless invitation to make ourselves truly, genuinely at-home.