It’s been several years since I read Robin Shreeve’s essay, “In Praise of Scruffy Hospitality,” from her TreeHugger blog, but I think of it often. Her short essay changed me and the way I think about having people into my home.
She starts out by describing a couple’s home. “The kitchen is small. The wood cabinets are dark and a few decades old. Spices and jars for sugar and flour line the countertops because there’s nowhere else to put them. A tall, round table shoved in a corner has mismatched bar stools crammed around it.”
She goes on to describe the deck—a yard-sale table, hand-me-down chairs and cushions, a “well-used chiminea.” The food too is mismatched—everybody contributes something—leftovers, toasted day-old bread and hummus, slices of cheese.
And yet, the author says, though the kitchen and deck are nothing fancy, they “are two of the most hospitable places I know.” And though the food doesn’t match, it becomes a literal “feast.”
I too have a friend like Shreeve’s friend. When you walk into her kitchen, the desk you come to first is piled high with papers. Barrettes and hair ties are shoved into the desk’s corners. Fingernail polish and other miscellaneous items have found their way to its flat surface. The dishes in the sink have yet to be washed. When we come to her house, we bring something to contribute—often it doesn’t match.
Why then, is this house one of the most hospitable spaces I know? What makes me feel so at home when I come here?
Too often our culture confuses hospitality with entertainment. We compare our spaces to Pinterest and trick ourselves into thinking our homes need to look like those homes before we invite anyone in.
I was talking with a few college students about this topic not long ago when one piped up and told me how stressful the holidays are for her. Her mother insists on hosting big dinners for the family, and she doesn’t let anyone bring anything or help. She and her mom clean for days. “It’s just so stressful and so much work,” she said, “and then people leave shortly after the dinner—you don’t even get to sit and talk with them, and no one seems to appreciate all the work that has gone into it. I hate it,” she said.
I feel her stress. I’ve been part of those preparations. Those dinners. The stress is palpable.
So, what makes a space hospitable? I don’t think mismatched furniture or messiness qualifies a space as hospitable necessarily—you can be neat and tidy and be hospitable too. The point of hospitality is that you let people into your space as-is. No matter that things aren’t perfect, a welcoming space is where someone says, “Come on in. Have a seat. Let me fix you a cup of tea. Tell me all your news.” This is the welcoming we long for—the friendship and personal care we crave.
Jesus commended Mary for her hospitality when he came to visit her and her sister Martha, two of Jesus’s best friends. Martha, the scriptures say, is the one who met Jesus at the door and welcomed him into their home. But then she hurried around setting the table and getting tasks done in the kitchen to prepare a meal for her Lord. And let’s be real, someone has to get dinner on, right? Some of us, I know, feel sorry for Martha because she was doing all the behind the scenes work by herself while Mary, seemingly, was just sitting there. But Mary wasn’t just sitting there –she was showing Jesus true hospitality. Her heart was bent towards him. She couldn’t wait to hear his news and everything else he had to say. By sitting with him and listening to him, she made him feel loved and cherished, and she did this because she really did love and cherish him (Luke 10:42-48).
What makes Mary’s posture of hospitality more favored than Martha’s? I believe it has to do with vulnerability. I listened to an Audible book on a plane recently called Getting Naked, by Patrick Lencioni. No, it’s not a book about sex. But it is a book about vulnerability. The very first line in the introduction says this, “Vulnerability. It is one of the most undervalued and misunderstood of all human qualities. Without the willingness to be vulnerable, we will not build deep and lasting relationships in life.” Lencioni goes on to tell a story about a consultant firm that practiced vulnerability and humility instead of the spiffed-up, know-it-all, polished presentations that his consultant firm practiced. Clients preferred vulnerability. It’s a fascinating read, and I highly recommend it.
I think living out scruffy hospitality has to do with a willingness to be vulnerable, and vulnerability makes us uncomfortable. We fear people won’t accept us if we let them into our everyday spaces and thoughts where things are a bit messy. We think the new art on the walls or the spring cleaning we just did will make people think we’re okay. Maybe they will think we are special if our food tastes “just so.” Perhaps they will like us more and think we are wonderful if our house looks beautiful.
But the opposite is actually true. What people are longing for really is not a pristine, beautifully put together house or an amazing food selection. They just want you. That’s it. They want you.
A friend of mine told me about a dinner she went to at an acquaintance’s house –they invited her and her husband over so the families could get to know each other better. The dinner was lovely, but after eating, the hostess disappeared —for quite some time. My friend noticed her absence. She wondered where she could have gone. Eventually, she found her in the kitchen, cleaning up all the dishes and wiping down counters.
My friend felt undervalued. She felt cheated out of good conversation and guilty for failing to help out with the dishes. This story made me sad because my friend is a wonderful person and she’s worth getting to know. The hostess on that night missed an important cue. That’s what Jesus was trying to say to Martha –you’re missing the cue. You think the tidying and the food prep are the point of the visit. They aren’t. Getting to know me—that is the point.
This journey to scruffy hospitality has been just that for me—a journey—one that I’m still on. There were plenty of times as my kids were growing up in our house when I know I put stress on them and on my husband with trying to get the house in order before “the company comes.” My kids have all read Shreeve’s essay, and when they are home and feel that old perfectionistic stress coming back in me, they will say, “scruffy hospitality, Mom, remember?” And when they say this, I immediately think of the couple in the essay, and my shoulders relax, and again, I am free.
Sometimes as a discipline now I will leave dirty dishes in the sink, even though I have 20 minutes to spare before guests arrive. The other night, I invited friends over after a church service and told them we were going to pop some pizzas in the oven. A few of them got to my house before I did and started assembling pizzas with my husband. The oven was preheating. We opened the bags of chips and popcorn our guests brought and started eating and chatting it up. It didn’t seem to matter to them that the pizzas weren’t done ‘til 930. It also didn’t seem to matter that my daughter warmed up the tomato soup she had made that day and put it on the table too, along with some “smokey” grilled cheese sandwiches she almost forgot about. “I like them smokey!” someone said. We enjoyed it all because we enjoyed being friends around some mismatched food and some great conversation.
I’m grateful to Robin Shreeves for writing about scruffy hospitality. It has helped me tear down walls of perfection and embrace vulnerability. Hannah Brencher’s words in Come Matter Here, sums up the heart of hospitality for me, “I think we’re all just wondering if someone will leave the light on for us. If they will leave the door open. If they will usher us in, saying, ‘Come to the table and eat. You must be hungry. Here, let’s eat.’ It’s the company, the belonging, that we’re most hungry for. The bacon is just the bonus.”
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