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Pass the Brussels Sprouts: The Grace and Gumption of Hospitality—Kate Gaston



by Kate Gaston


I was raised in a trailer, deep in the muggy nether regions of rural Alabama. This, I realize, may conjure images of a mildewed, tin can of a structure with cardboard over the windows and a snarling dog chained up out front.


While that picture is fairly representative of a large majority of trailers in St. Clair County, it wasn’t my home. No, my home—a double-wide—was actually on the fancier end of the spectrum, all things considered. It was quite respectable, really, for a house delivered to the spot on the back of a flatbed truck.


Whatever psychological chafing my parents may have felt surrounding our less-than-traditional home, it didn’t stop them from throwing wide the front door. Our home was the architectural equivalent of a bear hug, pulling folks in, welcoming them with as much hospitality as they had need for.


My parents hosted all manner of people and events. Whatever the occasion, my brothers and I would dash outdoors with all the kids. Depending on our numbers, we’d play kickball, capture the flag, or tape ball (our homegrown version of baseball where the ball was made of—you guessed it—tape).


After our games, hot, tired, and smelly, we’d crash back into the house to tank up on potato chips and RC Cola. The grown-ups would be deep in conversation, talking about whatever serious and dull things adults discuss. They’d shoo us back outdoors, where we’d recommence our games until the night dew was thick on the grass. Soaked in sweat, covered in grass stains and chiggers, we’d wave goodbye to our friends as their taillights disappeared into the night.


If my parents ever felt scarcity or exhaustion in these situations, it wasn’t obvious. They simply offered whatever expression of hospitality the moment called for. Their welcome was so natural, so seemingly effortless, that my childish brain never even registered it as hospitality. It was simply the way things were done, the wallpaper of life.


Though I failed to register my parents’ hospitality for what it was, I was quick to embrace that sham version of hospitality, pervasive as kudzu in the Deep South, which says hospitality is best offered on a silver platter.


It all started at Accents Tea Room and Gift Shoppe.


The tea room was nestled in the back of a quaint little house in the heart of downtown Pell City. Stepping inside the front door, your sinuses would be seared by the sickly sweet smell of potpourri in an eye-watering variety of scents. Every shelf groaned under the weight of a veritable infestation of kitschy knickknacks for sale.


Proceeding to the rear of the house, accompanied by the melodramatic strains of endlessly looping Muzak renditions of hit Broadway classics, you’d find yourself entering the tea room. Its tables were covered with snowy tablecloths, upon which nested charmingly mismatched china place settings. As guests trickled in for the lunch hour, I’d flit around their tables in my crisply starched apron, filling their water glasses and taking orders. Then I’d dash to the kitchen to help prepare their food—always a choice between chicken salad, a roast beef croissant, or a vintage goblet filled with something called Shrimp Louie.


For too many of my formative years, I equated the word “hospitality” with Battenburg lace, china tea cups, and exotic shrimp dishes.


Years later, as my wedding day approached and I gleefully registered for towels, waffle makers, and all manner of unnecessary household gadgetry, my attention turned, once again, to fine china.


Being raised in a trailer did not predispose me to the ownership of china, silver, and crystal. On top of that, the bridal milestone of registering for wedding china was experiencing, perhaps, its last gasp of cultural relevance. But if the matriarchs of society tell you to register for expensive china, you darn well register for expensive china. So I did.


Unwrapping each delicate piece as it arrived, my new husband and I then determined where to store them in our tiny apartment. Being students, each plate cost more than we made in a day’s work. To keep them safe, we tucked the plates high up in the pantry, right next to the goblets of Waterford crystal that stood in a soldierly line, waiting for their call to duty.


Almost two decades passed, and with every move, I’d painstakingly box up those beautiful things, hauling them hither and yon across the country. As I blew the dust from the plates and wrapped them in fresh bubble wrap, I knew that eventually there would come a day when I’d have the time, energy, and motivation to cook a meal worthy of my china place settings, a meal that would put Babette’s feast to shame.


Let me go ahead and spoil the ending for you.


There will never be enough time, energy, or motivation for hospitality if that’s what it is required to look like every time.


Yes, we like to offer our best. Yes, we’d like to welcome people beautifully, magically, with the tinkling of crystal and the glow of artfully dripping candelabras. But for real, though, sometimes hospitality is a frozen pizza thrown in the oven to accommodate more hungry mouths.


If you're still holding onto societal expectations that equate hospitality with fancified entertaining, it’s time to give your understanding a good threshing. Let the chaff be carried away; keep what’s real.


Hospitality is not about the trappings. It’s not about the food you serve. It’s not about how clean your house is, or even whether your house was delivered on the back of a truck. Hospitality is about something deeper, more palpable. Hospitality is that part of us that thrums along in resonance with the beating heart of Christ, choosing to acknowledge we are the embodiment of his intentions.


Each moment might not feel charged with some sort of supernatural aura, or some heightened sense of being about God’s work. In all likelihood, most moments won’t feel like that. We aren’t promised the ability to see the fruit of our labor. This can be infuriating, can’t it? But we are in the business of abiding and are called to trust the fruit-bearing to him.


Hospitality will almost always feel like work. Why? Because it is work. Perhaps, when the work is a heavy lift, when you’re tired, or when your frustration rises, recall what it feels like to be on the receiving end of someone’s heartfelt welcome. When I remember those moments I’ve been offered hospitality—even the small moments, especially the small moments—it softens me, making my heart a more spacious place.


Hospitality is when someone who drinks their coffee black has creamer in their fridge just for me. It’s when there’s a reading lamp on the bedside table and an extra pillow on the guest room bed. It’s when, in conversation, someone leans in for those two or three extra beats, showing me they really want to know my answer to their question; they aren’t just being polite. It’s when someone tells me to wear sweatpants to movie night at their house. It’s when someone remembers my favorite coffee mug.


Here’s a hospitality conundrum for you. A host who answers the door in sweatpants makes me feel loved, but it might make you feel devalued. I feel treasured when a host is willing to sit down with me for hours, our conversation the equivalent of an emotional spelunking expedition. That same focused intensity might make you feel twitchy.


How, oh, how is a host to know what’s right, good, and needed? Wouldn’t it be simpler if there was, I don’t know, an instruction manual? Well, yes. If hospitality were one-size-fits-all, it would certainly be simpler. But then it would be somewhat cheapened, too, wouldn’t it? Because the power of hospitality—the beauty of the thing—is in its specificity.


In the long, worthy work of hospitality, you’ll make some missteps. You’ll inevitably misread someone’s needs or overstep their boundaries. Mistakes are baked into the learning process. But the payoff for noticing and remembering that odd detail about someone? Worth it. Why? Because when someone treats us like we are worth remembering, it’s like a handful of dry kindling on the relational fire. What might have been smoldering embers is now alive, crackling and leaping with the joy of being seen.


The act of remembrance doesn't require much, really, on the part of the host. Except this one, pesky thing. You must pay attention.


No biggie. Pay attention. Got it.


Go ahead, then. I dare you to pay attention to how difficult it can be to pay attention.


When we think about hospitality, we love to point at Mary and Martha as examples of how to do it, don’t we? Those two women are like the biblical version of Goofus and Gallant. I’m not discounting their story. I love that story. I’ve lived that story.


But I’d love to throw the doors wide open here, welcoming us all into the broader understanding that hospitality is not—and never was—solely the work of Christian women. It is the work of Christians.


If hospitality is not pearls and high heels, if it’s not gherkins and deviled eggs on a silver platter, what, exactly, is it? And more, who is to blame for upending that box in which we’d like our version of hospitality to be oh-so-neatly stored?


Well, it was Jesus.


The man didn’t own a house. He didn’t own a Le Creuset pan. He didn’t own a silver platter, or have a wife to wear high heels while carrying that platter. But he fed multitudes. Literally everywhere he went, there were hungry people to feed. He noticed their hunger and gave them food.


But the hospitality of Christ wasn’t limited to food. Neither, then, is ours. He offered hospitality by noticing dirty feet and washing them. He noticed snotty-nosed kids, and he gathered those children to himself in extravagant welcome. He noticed people’s diseases—their bleeding, oozing sores, their blind eyes—and he touched them, cleansed them, healed them. He noticed people’s souls, wracked by demons, self-righteousness, or despair, and he unchained them.


Jesus loved people deeply. He wasn’t some blank-eyed automaton handing out platitudes and baskets of bread and fish. He wept over the grave of Lazarus, his friend’s body bound by the cords of death. Then he willed a heart to resume beating and commanded stilled lungs to expand. In offering the words that reversed the curse, Jesus, the consummate host, welcomed Lazarus back to life.


He was a busy man, but when confronted with needy, broken people, he paused, stilled his steps, and leaned in. That, friends, is what hospitality is.


Men and women. Rich and poor. Single or married. Housed or vagabond. Welcoming the stranger is part of our call, whatever manner of life you happen to be living at the moment.


Disclaimer: I’m about to give you an example of hospitality that does take place in a kitchen.


Don’t be confused, though. Remember: Hospitality is not women’s work. Nor does hospitality always take place within the context of a house, much less a kitchen. Hospitality doesn’t even always include food. But quite often it does. Why? Because food serves as a sort of hyperlink to a person’s soul.


When hospitality does happen to include food, we come face to face with this simple truth: Meals don’t cook themselves. And cooking a meal while trying to make people feel welcome can actually be quite difficult. Someone is invariably standing directly in front of the silverware drawer, blithely chitchatting away while you—sweating, your face stretched in a tight rictus—rush to get the Brussels sprouts out of the oven before they blacken beyond all reckoning.


In those moments of pre-dinner hustle, check your own pulse. Slow your heart rate. Slow your hands. Unless something is literally on fire, consider giving your guest sixty seconds of your undivided attention.


After you’ve offered your guest that focused minute, say something like, “I’m looking forward to hearing the whole story about your Aunt Brenda’s appendectomy. If you’ll give me five minutes to get this food on the table, I’ll be able to sit down and give you my full attention.”


If your guest continues lingering in the kitchen, give him something to do with his hands. That’s right. Put him to work.


Here’s a secret: The task you appear to spontaneously give to your guest can be arranged ahead of time. Yes, you can plan for this moment even before the guest arrives in the kitchen. Could you accomplish that task more efficiently than your guest? Of course you could. But that’s beside the point. Whether it’s cutting the baguette, chopping the cilantro, or uncorking the wine, the task gives the guest the ability to offer their social energy as a gift to you and the other guests. Accept this gift graciously, letting it remind you that you yourself, like everyone else in this broken world, are a weak and needy creature.


Don’t be afraid of being direct in this moment of delegation, though. As a host, you wield a certain amount of authority. People are gathered in your home because you asked them to be there, after all.


In her book The Art of Gathering: How We Meet and Why It Matters, Priya Parker makes this point beautifully: “An essential step along the path of gathering better is making peace with the necessity and virtue of using your power. If you are going to create a kingdom for an hour or a day, rule it—and rule it with generosity.”


Okay, so the meal is on the table. The guests are seated. The wine is flowing. Forks are scraping and conversations are humming. Now, maybe, you can relax. Now, hopefully, you can give your guests that close attention which hospitality requires. You take a bite, trying not to notice the guy who just spilled wine on your antique tablecloth. Or that kid over there, crumbling a cookie into a literal million pieces and scattering those crumbs on the floor in a 3-foot radius.


And though you were secretly hoping your guest would forget to bring up Aunt Brenda’s inflamed appendix, he didn’t. Now you’re hearing every painstaking detail. Take a deep breath. Forget about the spilled wine. Let that cookie crumble as it will. Because your willingness to sacrifice your attention and time—precious, sweet, fleeting time—is precisely what love looks like.


Andy Patton, in his article Hospitality is More Than Entertaining, wrote:


“Hospitality is the readiness to welcome the intrusions and interruptions that love demands. That kind of love is profligate with time. It gives away time as though it were a precious resource that one has in such abundance that it has become common.”

The welcome isn’t about the food. It’s not about whether you’ve perfected your grandmother’s Shrimp Louie recipe. Hospitality doesn’t require a spotless kitchen. In fact, sometimes it’s found tucked among drifts of unfolded laundry. It doesn’t require pearls, heels, or perfectly applied lipstick. Sometimes it’s offered on fine china, but sometimes a generous welcome over reheated leftovers served on paper plates is just the ticket. Hospitality doesn’t require a wife; it doesn’t require a husband. It’s not about where you live—be it a double-wide trailer or a penthouse. It doesn’t require a house at all.


Hospitality requires only this: We must still our hearts from our bustle and busyness, and we must notice the person in front of us. The welcome, the work of hospitality, happens when you lean in and show the person sitting across from you that they are worth paying attention to.


And here’s some lovely, freeing truth. Not only can you offer hospitality in whatever abode you happen to be stewarding at this very moment, but you can also do it exactly as you’ve been gifted to do it. You can offer hospitality quietly or exuberantly, in precise details or in bold strokes, to one person or to many people. We’ve been given this glorious calling by a God who welcomed us first, and who delights in all our particularities and eccentricities because, well, he made them.


In the words of Robert Farrar Capon, that patron saint of many merrymakers:


“Let us pause and drink to that. To a radically, perpetually unnecessary world; to the restoration of astonishment to the heart and mystery to the mind . . . We are free: nothing is needful, everything is for joy. Let the bookkeepers struggle with their balance sheets; it is the tippler who sees the untipped Hand. God is eccentric; He has loves, not reasons. Salute!”

Take heart. For whatever unfathomable reason, the God of the universe is committed to his plan of working through you and me for the rolling out of his kingdom. His plan for wooing his bride won’t be thwarted simply because you overcooked the Brussels sprouts. And this is very good news, indeed.


For your further reading and dining pleasure:




An Alabama native, Kate Gaston was homeschooled before it was even remotely considered normal. She completed her undergraduate degree at Bryan College and went on to graduate school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham. For eight years, Kate worked as a PA in a trauma and burn ICU before ping-ponging across the nation for her husband’s medical training. She and her family are currently putting down roots in Nashville, Tennessee. Today, Kate enjoys homeschooling her daughter and tutoring in her local classical homeschool community. She also finds deep satisfaction in long, meandering conversations at coffee shops, oil painting, writing, and gazing pensively into the middle distance. You can read more of her work at her Substack: That Middle Distance.


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