Hospitality: incarnate grace.

Fourteen is a tough age. I remember the feeling. I didn’t quite deserve a spot at the adults’ table, but I wanted to be respected and included. I spent a good bit of time waiting to be deemed acceptable by the adults I most admired, but I felt I just hadn’t earned it yet.

And then a picnic. I don’t even remember the occasion. But I recall like a photograph a bowl of fresh cherries, set on a blanket in the grass by the Clinton Dam in Massachusetts. It was a beautiful spot to gather a few people on a sunny afternoon. And that ceramic bowl of cherries had been put there for me. And by whom? By one of the most admirable adults in my life: the headmistress of my school! For me!

I was included! I was accepted! I hadn’t done anything to earn my spot at this picnic blanket, on this sweep of grassy hill! It was just grace; it was just richness and welcome. I, an awkward and often unpleasant fourteen year old, was welcome in this group of people I admired. I belonged among them.

As a guest, I received the incarnate grace of hospitality: acceptance in the bodily form of a bowl of cherries on a blanket.