A seat at the table

One day while Dan and I were non-dating, he threw some carrots, potatoes, celery, onion, and meat into a Crockpot. (Non-dating is when you hike and snowshoe and sip chai lattes together as friends in your own little bubble because it’s the year 2020.)

“I made more stew than I can eat. Do you want to come for dinner?” Dan asked.

Photo by Laura Ohlman on Unsplash

At the time, it sounded a little too cozy, because we were just friends, right? And sharing a meal in the privacy of someone’s home seemed like something could happen beyond friendship, like the friendship could change into something more than I wanted.

But I accepted Dan’s invitation, and the rest is history (for which I’m extremely grateful).

In her book Bread and Wine, Shauna Niequist wrote:

It’s not, actually, strictly, about food for me. It’s about what happens when we come together, slow down, open our homes, look into one another’s faces, listen to one another’s stories.

And 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.

I realize there are those who don’t enjoy inviting guests into their homes. Maybe because they don’t like to cook. Or they’re waiting until they can afford nicer furniture. Or they’re simply not comfortable having people in their personal space.

Shauna Niequist suggests we start simple by ordering pizza and serving it with a green salad:

Focus on making people comfortable, on creating a space protected from the rush and chaos of daily life, a space full of laughter and safety and soul.

Peter, one of Christ’s disciples, composed a letter to believers scattered throughout Asia Minor (modern-day Turkey). In his letter, Peter wrote:

Show hospitality to one another without grumbling.

– 1 Peter 4:9

Showing hospitality in the ancient Middle Eastern culture meant inviting strangers in who were passing through the sparse region, travelers who needed food, a bath, shelter.

Dan and I have fed and lodged people we hadn’t met until they showed up on our front porch. Strangers when they arrived, but friends before they left.

Even though I’m an introvert, I love meeting new people. I think (hope) I have the gift of being genuinely interested and asking questions of guests to draw out their stories.

Had I declined Dan’s invitation to share the stew that he’d slow cooked in his Crockpot, our relationship still would have developed into something stronger and more beautiful. But sharing a meal in his home—just the two of us talking about who knows what because that’s something we did (do) well together, the talking and listening—provided a deeper glimpse into this good man.

It takes vulnerability to open our hearts and homes. To welcome people around our table. To feed them—whether we’ve prepared the food ourselves or not. To listen to their stories. To create a sense of home and belonging and inclusion.

One last quote from Shauna Niequist in her book, Bread and Wine:

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I believe that’s absolutely true. Not that the way to land a guy is by baking him cookies, although it never hurts. But that if you can satiate a person’s hunger, you can get a glimpse of their heart. There’s an intimacy in it, in the meeting of needs and the filling of one’s stomach, that is tied to the heart.

Including guests at our table, especially guests who are of different persuasions, goes beyond meeting the need for physical food; it provides the opportunity to be seen and to have one’s story heard.

Which creates deeper connections.

And deeper connection is the all-important facet of hospitality.