One Turned Back: 408 The House of Welcome

Around two a.m. my parents heard the sounds of an intruder going through their home. Bravely they got out of bed, approach the kitchen, and found a little boy sitting in their fridge chugging from our gallon of milk. I don’t remember this directly, but I remember the conversations that followed. Our home was a place of refuge for many children because my mom and dad were a place of welcome.

I sometimes refer to the messy house I grew up in. This was true, not because my mother was lazy or the kids didn’t help. It was messy because it was alive with activity and people. Our home was bursting to the brim with the six of us and others from our neighborhood or friends. It was a home that always said welcome and because of the constancy of that welcome it couldn’t pretend that magical faeries came and cleaned it.

Children would come from several blocks away to play at house. They came to our house because my mom wouldn’t yell at us for coming in and out of her home to get water. They came to our house because even if it wasn’t much my mom would dole out lunch to three extra kids. They came to our house because my mom might turn on hose and let us squirt each other. They came to our house because my dad would greet them with a smile after working a long day.

Some of these children were delightful, others were bratty or mean. Some of these children loved to help and were kind, many more children would break our things and lie about it. Even though many of these children were “bad influences” and we were forbidden from entering their homes, my parents didn’t try to limit who came. They believed that the stinkers needed godly friends and adults in their lives and that meant being inconvenienced.

My parents always welcomed our friends into our home. My mom would pull out fake flower petals and clothespins and have us make faeries. She would suggest that we make a secret garden or let us cook breakfast and mess up her kitchen. My dad would tiptoe over sleeping bag bodies to respond to a DCS call at the break of dawn. Or find that my brother and his friend were trying to ride bicycles off the roof like stunt men, they were still welcomed. Chastised, but welcome.

When I became a teenager, my parents hospitality grew. It included giving up our only television set for an all-night movie marathon with my friends. It included making a huge bowl of Christmas dip and chips and cookie dough. It never occurred to me that my parents would tell me my friends couldn’t come. We were the de-facto house. Of course, they were welcome!

If you dropped by my parents’ house today it would be far cleaner than I remember, even on its messiest days. They no longer have clans of teenagers dropping by at all hours or children tromping in and out. But the spirit remains, you are welcome. Always welcome! They have temporarily housed many in their little abode (my siblings and their spouses, the foreign exchange student, or one of their kids’ friends). Their example of radical hospitality has ingrained in me that you don’t discount people because of the way they look or even behave, you don’t elevate appearances over people, and you give with an open hand. I am thankful for my mom and dad and the house that says welcome.