Five-Star Hospitality

Recently, Ken and I went on a six-day trip. Our route took us to Lancaster Co. in Pennsylvania, down through Delaware and North Carolina, and far enough into South Carolina that we almost hit the Georgia border. We booked hotel rooms for our lodging part of the time, but for two of the nights we decided to notify friends that we required some “putting up”. It has been said that hospitality not only requires putting guests up, but also some putting up with guests, which our friends must have been okay to do, because they let us come.

The hosts in both places where we stayed showed us impressive hospitality. One of the couples had other guests staying in their spare bedrooms, so they offered us the use of their spacious Airbnb accommodations. The bedroom was called The Elijah Room, but I say it was an Elijah Room with Extras, what with all the cushion and charm added to the simple bed, table, stool, and candlestick of the biblical Elijah’s quarters.

In the South, my cousin and his family offered us warm fellowship right along with the warm SC weather. You know how you can just jump right into easy, homey conversation with some people, no matter how long it’s been since you’ve seen them last? Well, they are definitely that kind of relatives. And visiting over sweet, cold watermelon and sweet iced tea only added to our taste of southern hospitality in their home.

I also had another lovely slice of southern hospitality when the host of the board meeting Ken attended in South Carolina arranged for the board member’s wives to attend a “proper Southern Tea” at his sister’s house. That afternoon was a true delight, bless my heart, getting to be in her “Setting Room” and at her fahn dahning room table, and all.

Being the recipient of these hospitality samples got me thinking about what all goes into making guests feel at home, and about the many, many times friends and relatives – and sometimes people we didn’t even know – have offered us this gracious gift. I am humbled and grateful.

Perhaps you have been hospitable to me and/or my family in the past. Thank you. Even if you have never had us in your home for a meal or an overnight stay, I’m going to guess that you have shown hospitality to someone in some way at some point. Thank you.

Thank you for:

Washing the bed sheets and pillow cases from the last time you had overnight guests, taking them (the sheets I mean, not the guests!) out of the dryer or off the line, and wrestling them onto the mattresses to get the rooms ready for us.

Powering on through the stage that occurs between inviting us and having us show up at your front door in which you seriously question what in the world you were thinking when you asked us to come.

Taking time from your stance at the stove to meet us at the door and to shake our hands or give us a hug when we arrived. Your hearty and authentic “Come in, come in!” was so welcoming.

Putting ordinary items into unique containers – like the strawberry jam in a teacup, or the flower garden bouquet in a gravy boat – because somehow that little twist of everyday made us feel special.

Giving up your bedroom for us to use for a few nights. And if it was your children, which is even more likely, who gave up their rooms for our use, please be sure to thank them for me.

Serving us such a lovely set-out breakfast on Sunday morning. Especially appealing were the bunches of grapes and wedges of cheese artfully arranged on the wooden board.

Having your whole family join us for the snack you offered us in your kitchen after our choir program in your church. Your children were so alert and engaged that it made us tell each other later we’re going to have a family like that when we grow up.

Sharing your gift of just plain being a good cook. Those mounds of fluffy mashed potatoes, though. Pooled with flavorful gravy alongside tender roast beef and onions…

Sharing your gift of implementing unusual (to me) ingredients in your dishes, giving me new ideas to try at home. Like cinnamon on roast chicken, rhubarb in a refreshing summer drink, bacon grease as the popping medium for popcorn.

Leaving just enough dust on the bookcase shelves and a cobweb or two in the corner to make me feel like a normal housekeeper.

Cutting the butter into a quilt pattern shape. I noticed that artistic touch, and liked it very much.

Asking us about the hard parts of our life journey, and then crying along with us when we shared them. It was also healing to share laughter with you in the same conversation.

Using your antique and heirloom dishes on the table as if they were Corelle, simply because you believe these family treasures are to be used and enjoyed on special occasions rather than to languish in a cupboard prison. I felt honored that you took the risk of their possible breakage to include me in the handling of your valuable keepsakes.

Showing me ultimate compassion as a hostess. When I was mortified at my youngster puking on your kitchen floor, you got down on your hands and knees to help me clean up the mess.

Taking us on a stroll around your property, a meander through your garden, a tour of your business; for showing us your latest project. I didn’t count that as bragging at all; your interest and passion in your work and hobbies was truly inspiring.

Allowing me to help you in the kitchen but sometimes insisting that I sit on a stool and just talk to you while you work.

Pointing out your washer and dryer for our use – that time we stayed with you awhile – and for setting up the iron and ironing board.

Placing those candies beside the personal welcome note on the nightstand in your guest room. They were a nice gesture.

Giving us such a good time at the all-day gathering of friends and their families at your place, and then fortifying us with hot drinks in to-go cups with lids and snack bags of salties for the two-hour ride home after dark.

Cleaning up after us when we were gone, washing dishes and the boatload of towels and bed linens, putting away the toys and games that our children played with into their right spots again…I sincerely hope you got some time to put your feet up before tackling all of that.

Do you know what is most outstanding about your hospitality? You were yourself with us. That is the very best gift of all. Thank you!

Have you ever received five-star hospitality? What about it impressed you the most?

This Post's Quotable:

My mom and dad related to us an incident they observed at a restaurant when a lady at a table close to theirs began to choke on her food. They heard her wheezing in her struggle for air and watched while several people nearby tried the Heimlich maneuver on her. An attempt by a third bystander dislodged the offending morsel from the choking lady’s throat. While feeling relief at this point in the story, we just hooted with laughter when my dad commented on the probable results of the rescuers being none too gentle in their Heimlich attempts on the woman’s chest. Perhaps Dad’s being well-versed in scripture played into his mistake in word choice: “I would guess that lady had some bruised reeds!”

This Post's Childhood Memory:

I remember my mom’s pineapple upside-down cake. She didn’t make it very often, but how we loved it when she did. From the beautiful red cherry-centered sweet and tart pineapple rings nestled in the buttery brown-sugary syrupy layer on top to the beautiful golden tender cakey layer on the bottom, it was a warm and comforting delight. I could never figure out, though, Mom’s timing in making it. She always seemed to produce the treat right when I had a canker sore on my tongue. The acid from the pineapple really stung the sore in my mouth, and I’d have to decide whether to endure the pain to gain the pleasure or to forego the delicious baking until the next time Mom made pineapple upside-down cake. Just maybe I wouldn’t have a canker sore then!

God-moments in June

“I wish you many God-moments in the year to come” says one of my birthday cards. I’ve not only read the God-moment phrase in a card, but I’ve also have seen it on social media and have heard it in real-life conversation. I have said and written the phrase myself.  What is a God-moment?

Is it that feeling of awe you get when you view something majestic or breathtakingly beautiful in nature, and you realize that only God could have made such a wonder, so you take a moment to thank and praise Him?

Is a God-moment when you have prayed in desperation for something and suddenly the answer to your prayer comes, and the timing as well as the form in which it appears is so unexpected that you just know it had to be God?

Or is it when a truth strikes you in a brand-new way or a confirmation of something you’ve been thinking all along gets underscored and you almost want to yell the “Yes!” that surges in your spirit?

I suppose there’s a myriad of ways that God-moments come to us all. Here, in a series of pics and text, are some of mine that I’ve had in the month of June: 

I seem to have God-moments easily when I’m with my grandbaby, Seth. He’s two months old now, and getting only cuter and more charming with age. It seemed to take so long until he finally came to our house for the first time, but since then, he’s been making a regular habit of it. We love it! The other night Rolin and Joy went out for supper to celebrate their third anniversary and Ken & I got to babysit Seth for the first time. When I watched Ken interacting with his grandson and heard them during a chuckle exchange, the delight I experienced in both of these loved ones was, I believe, a God-moment.

I also got to be at a baby shower for Joy (or was it for Seth? I never know for sure whether a baby shower is actually for the mom or for the baby. Probably it’s both.) in June. It was pretty special to attend my first baby shower for a grandchild that day. If you need an interesting activity idea for a baby shower you’re planning, here’s an idea. Have each shower attendee bring a baby picture of herself to be displayed at the party. Have everyone guess who is who by looking at the pictures on display. It’s harder – and more intriguing – than you might think. Here’s a pose of the shower baby, his mom, and his two grandmas:

                                                                                     (Photo Cred: Jasmine Martin)

                                                                                          

I had a birthday in June. Birthdays always are an opportunity for me to reflect on the goodness of God in His granting me another year of life. In that reflection of His blessings on me, I always end up feeling rich. Here’s a sample of my journal entries regarding the richness I recorded this June:

“White feathery dandelion balls in sunset light”

“The cedar waxwing and thrush and some kind of yellow warbler on the Elmira rail trail walk”

“Garden tilled! Garden planted! Whole thing!”

“So many sweet and funny and nice bday messages”

“Phil and Rosemary’s twins were born on my (and Anni’s) birthday!”

“My “Glory Soak” moments, as dubbed by Ann Voskamp”

“Us Kenites ladies chatting in Joy’s kitchen after brunch”

“How Ken takes his grandpa role so seriously and passionately”

“Gorgeous and tasty food at the Martin Ladies’ Bday celeb”

In the month of June, I reread the children’s story, “The Secret Garden” (Frances Hodgson Burnett) by listening to an audio recording of it. A book I loved when I was a child still held intrigue for me these many years later. I understood a deeper layer of Mary Lennox’s character growth and Colin Craven’s healing, as well as more of the motherly wisdom of Dickon and Martha’s mother Mrs. Susan Sowerby this time through.

I had a God-moment one day as I worked in the kitchen, listening to a chapter in The Secret Garden. It happened when I heard the part about the robin and his mate and their Eggs. The paragraph began by describing the nervous watchfulness of the parent birds as they observed Mary and her friends in the secret garden sharing their space. They were wary because they weren’t sure that the other creatures realized like they did “the wonderfulness of what was happening to them—the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of Eggs. If there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an Egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end—if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air.”

I heard that piece of the book and immediately connected it to a topic foremost and heavy on my mind – the abuse tragedy in Haiti. I thought of the “immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity” of The Young Men in Haiti, and it moved me at a place very deep within. I thought of the tender and terrible Maker of the Boys, and felt at once both comfort and great pain. No wonder the news of so many hurt Eggs has whirled many whole worlds round and seemingly crashed them through space and brought them to a desperate, despairing end; why there has been no happiness even in our golden summertime air.

Since we’ve been going to Oasis, our new church in downtown Kitchener, we have begun developing a friendship with a woman (I’ll call her Debbie) whom we’d been merely acquainted with years ago. She lives just across the street from the building in which we “Oasisans” meet for evening church meetings and functions other than our Sunday morning services.

Debbie has been an orphan for more than six decades of her 70 years. Not having any family of her own to speak of, she loves getting in on our family life. During one of her almost-weekly visits to our home, I suggested we take a walk on the St. Jacobs Millrace Trail. She was willing to give it a try, so we spent a couple of hours meandering up the trail its full length from village to dam, and back down. It was a perfect June day, and wildlife abounded on the trail and in the water on one side of the trail and in the woods on the other side.

When I think back on that time and recall the peacefulness of our surroundings, the intrigue of a pair of muskrats swimming to their den with their mouths chuck full of long grasses, how Debbie delighted in everything from the twisted bark of the cedar tree trunks to the little baby mink bounding down the path ahead of us, I realize that we shared a long God-moment that afternoon.

What’s your definition of a God-moment? Want to tell me about one you’ve had lately?

This Post's Quotable:

A conversation among some ladies from our church on a Sunday night went something like this:

“Did you catch the pastor’s pun in his message this morning? When he was talking about positive thinking alone being an inadequate motivation for a responsible surgeon wanting to start a practice, he said that it just wouldn’t cut it.”

“I didn’t catch that.”

“I didn’t either. It would take a pun-lover to notice.”
“Yeah, you had to be sharp for that one.” 

This Post's Childhood Memory:

When we had a few Sunday School lessons from the book of Amos recently, and we studied the vision of the plumb line, I thought about some of my dad’s carpenter tools. I remember him using a plumb line and a chalk line on various occasions, such as when he was laying block for building our barn. The plumb line was a long, thin string with a metal weight tied (or attached in some way) to one end. Dad would hold it up to a block wall to see if the wall was straight vertically, leaning neither forward or backward, nor shifting to one side or the other. The chalk line was a thin string wound up into a little diamond-shaped metal case that could be held in one hand. Dad would pull the string out of one end of the case by a metal loop at its end and hook it on to a nail (or get someone to hold it at the proper place) at one edge of the concrete slab or sheet of wood he wished to mark. He’d then walk the distance to the other end, unreeling the line as he went. When he was ready to mark the line, he made the string fairly taut, but not so tight that he couldn’t raise it just a bit and let it go, allowing it to snap back down. The string had been cased in red chalk dust which adhered to the surface as it was snapped, making a straight red line to be used as an alignment gauge. After the line was marked, someone would unhook the string at the nail end while Dad would stand at the other end and pull out a little metal handle from the side of the chalk line case to use as a crank to reel the line back in. I thought the whole procedure was very fascinating.