I see a slight movement out the corner of my eye. I turn, and jump. Four eyes are staring in through the one small
crack in the mini blinds of my front window. I look closer and recognize B. and Y., two of
my Jarai-speaking friends, grinning in at me.
They're probably here about World Refugee Day, I think to
myself. We told all the students that a school
bus would be coming to take them to the celebration downtown. They know I'm going to ride the bus with
them, to help with logistics, and have been asking me about it all week.
I walk out onto my stoop to greet B. and Y., and, sure enough, they're
at my house to double-check they know the right time and place.
"Yes," I tell them. "Across the street at
3:30." They smile and nod and say
"Okay"—and continue to stand on my stoop.
Right, I tell myself. This
"isn’t America." There aren't
any thirty-second conversations, or "I just had a quick question"
comings and goings. This is my cue to
invite them inside to visit.
I pause.
It's Saturday, and I've been doing projects around my house—painting curtain
rods, rabbit-proofing my back patio, making greeting cards, reorganizing part
of my kitchen—and my home is in chaos.
My curtains are on the floor, my furniture is disarranged, art supplies
are strewn about, there's a pile of "stuff to take upstairs" on my
stairway, I haven't done the dishes yet, paint fumes are coming from outside,
and there's a hacksaw on my kitchen table.
It's always hard for me to let someone see my house when it's
messy. True story: I was sick a few
months ago, and my drugged, half-asleep brain realized that if I died,
people would come inside and see the I'm-sick-and-don't-care-if-stuff-is-everywhere
state of my house, and think I lived that
way. I actually dragged myself out of
bed and began neatening before eventually deciding it wouldn't matter to me
anymore, since I would be dead. (Yes, I
completely blame my mother for this.)
Needless to say, I was appalled at the thought of these two friends—neither
of whom had been inside my apartment before—seeing my mess. I knew, though, that inviting them in was
important. It was important for them,
culturally and relationally, as a sign of respect and friendship. But it was important for me, too. As I've said before, hospitality does notcome naturally to me. This was a chance
for me to choose whether it was more important to show love or to bow to my vanity—to
think of my guests, or to think of myself.
With some mortification and a quick prayer against my own pride, I invited
them inside (not to say I didn't kick a couple things under the couch and shove
some of the furniture back where it went on my way to the door).
And you know what? It was
fine. The visit itself was endearingly
awkward and amusing, as most such visits are.
This is the same B. you may remember, who invited me into her house
before. The B. who speaks essentially no
English. Y. speaks even less. But I have tons of family pictures (always a
popular choice), they gave me a tour of Vietnam on a world map, and we enjoyed
just being together, words or not.
Here's the best part: While they were there, I even forgot (sometimes) that
my house was "embarrassing."
In a weird way, I can see the grace in God dropping me straight into my
mind's worst-case scenario for a spontaneous guest: If a visit can still go
well in that chaos, then it can work in any setting. Yesterday was for me a confirmation—an actual
successful experience, however small it may seem to you, for me to remember and
build from and hold onto—that hospitality is not about how well I can impress
people with my house, or my food, or my "hostess-ness." It is not about me at all. It's about sharing the love of Christ, and
letting him love people and meet their needs through my obedience to him.
So—while still slightly horrified that people were in my house
yesterday—I'm glad that God is giving me opportunities to learn to be more
hospitable. I'm even more glad, again,
that he's a patient teacher.
A quick follow-up on World Refugee Day:
While B. and Y. were at my house, other students began gathering
outside my door, too.
Now, if any of you have traveled outside the U.S., you are probably
familiar with varying views of time across cultures. We were fully expecting our day to unfold in
"refugee time"—we told them the bus was leaving at 3:30 when it was
actually coming at 3:45. Our optimistic
departure time was 4.
It was 2:30 when they started gathering. By 2:45, a whole group was standing in the apartment
parking lot, waiting for me to walk to the bus site with them. It was amazing. They were so excited to celebrate.
At the event itself, people walking by downtown were drawn to the
beautiful cultural costumes and dances, and stopped to ask questions about what
was going on. Many had never heard of refugees, or had no idea that more than
3,000 of them lived right in Charlotte.
All in all, it seems to have been a great success, both as a cultural
celebration and awareness-raising campaign.
My neighbors are already planning for next year—some are planning to get
me and the other ESL teachers/volunteers to do a Bhutanese dance with them. That will be interesting…
