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You’re Welcome

You’re Welcome

Last updated on: November 14, 2014 at 6:08 am by Jack Levison

You’re Welcome 2014-11-14T06:08:16-08:00 Jack Levison

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Some places I just want to pass through.

Toll booths, for instance. Call me predictable, but I’ve never had a hankering to hold onto my money, incline my seat back, and sit under the neon lights of a toll booth.

Dental chairs, too. Not my style to sit there longer than I have too, even with those nifty spittle-dotted sunglasses on. (I’ve tried to get my dentist to offer mani-pedis during cleaning visits, but he won’t bite.)

Drivers’ license offices don’t invite me to settle into those plastic chairs and doze off happily. Not once. Not in any state I’ve ever lived.

These are places I just want to pass through.

There are other places, however, where I just want to linger.

I was at one of these last night. I’m in Boston for some speaking, so I decided I would visit the offices of my publisher, Paraclete Press. Pam, the marketing director, arranged for me to stay in a guest house that belongs to the Community of Jesus, a residential ecumenical community, which runs Paraclete Press.

The guest house sits on Cape Cod, just across from the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. You can smell the salt water air and enjoy gorgeous architecture, including a magnificent basilica overflowing with lavish mosaics. It’s a stunning environment for a guest house.

But stunning doesn’t make me want to linger. Museums are stunning, for example, but my urge to linger lasts only as long as my tired back and sore knees. I linger a little there.

But the guest house in the Community of Jesus? I could linger there. Not, however, because of its location or its architecture—but because of the small touches that made me want to stay. When I arrived late—hours late, actually—Sister Naomi served me a lovely meal: roast beef on a fresh roll with a smooth horseradish sauce, crispy potato chips, a little bowl of assorted pickles and cherry tomatoes, and a fresh, hot cup of decaf black tea. (A teenie cup of sugar and pitcher of milk were on the table, at the ready, just begging me to ask for a cup of tea.) She even set a dessert of ice cream pie in front of me.

You get the point, right? It’s the small gestures that make for hospitality.

What about in the room? A welcome sign in calligraphy. A tray full of teas, two cups and saucers. A plate on the dresser with a fresh apple from their own orchards, a sharp and shiny knife, and a chocolate mint by their side. It’s the small gestures that make for hospitality.

Then for breakfast Sister Sharon served me German apple pancakes Sister Naomi had made. The crust was mildly crunchy on the outside, fresh and doughy and warm on the inside, with perfectly baked apples, two sausage links, a small pitcher of warm maple syrup, and an autumn leaf on the plate. Fresh orange juice, another pot of hot tea, and the breakfast was perfect.

You know what I wanted to do this afternoon as I walked out the door for the drive back to Boston? I wanted to linger. Hospitable gestures—gestures that say your hosts want you to stay—make you want to do just that. To linger, languish a little in the certainty that you don’t have to rush away.

What strikes me about hospitality is not the grand gesture: the garish lobby, the overstuffed buffet. What strikes me is how much small gestures communicate. An autumn leaf that tells you your host isn’t in a hurry. A shiny knife that says, “Go ahead. Slice into this fresh, juicy apple.” They’re not rushing, it suggests, so why should I?

I did, of course, through the traffic of a Boston rush hour. Hard not to rush during rush hour. But I mulled over the small gestures and found myself asking, “What small gestures do I make to tell people how welcome they are?” More than one type of pickle in a cup. An autumn leaf. A chocolate mint next to an apple. Oh, and this. In my room on the night stand was a small tray. I imagine my hosts wanted me to sit in bed, sipping a cup of tea.

Go ahead. Ask yourself, as I’m doing, what gestures—like the placement of a knife or the presence of a leaf—do I make to tell people they are welcome in my life? I’ll think of one if you do, too. But make the gesture small, almost unnoticeable. The smaller, I discovered last night, the better.

Yes, I know it’s a good reminder.

You’re welcome.

Uncategorized

hospitality; Christianity; Community of Jesus; Cape Cod; tea; relaxation; rest

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