I am grateful for the gift of hospitality. I think of it as a gift because there are those who have an incredible, almost divine, talent for welcoming others and making them feel at ease. I have always wanted to have this gift. Some have told me that I do. I used to love having guests over, for coffee, dinner, breakfast, overnight. I never was able to quite pull off the open door policy. It always seemed like too much pressure, too many people and too little time. But in smaller quantities, one two, three or four guests, sometimes strangers from off the sidewalk, I used to thrive on having people over, sharing my home, my food, coffee, my life.
When I had my first apartment at the tender age of eighteen, two rooms occupying the entire attic of a large house, I was told that I and my place were like a spiritual filling station. I became quickly comfortable and adept at having guests. Being young and stupid, I didn't have good boundaries and things often easily got out of hand. People didn't always know when to leave and I didn't know when to ask them to leave. Yes there were drugs and alcohol, sometimes, but not always. Let's just say that here was a naïve good-looking boy, fresh out of high school, trying his wings out with his first apartment and his first real experience of independence. In April of that year, shortly after turning nineteen, I was celebrating my first acid trip and several friends came over for the show. Then there were the two ex-con's I invited up with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Not a smart thing to do but the worst thing that happened was I got rather drunk, then went to work that night at a busy espresso bar. Get the idea?
Through the years, life only felt normal with guests visiting at least twice a week. Even when I had only a housekeeping room with a kitchenette, I always had people over, sometimes to sleep. I was twenty-three then and still very flexible. My boundaries were still pretty soft.
Over the years that followed, I continued being hospitable. Sometimes visitors would stay overnight on the couch, and I liked that for the company and having someone to share breakfast with.
I suppose I was lonely. I also think that my involvement with the Jesus People, as well as my warm and friendly mother's own good example, really reinforced to me the importance of radical hospitality. These were my role models. I wanted to pay the blessing forward.
When I became homeless in 1998, at the age of forty-two, the roles were suddenly reversed, and many friends came forward to share their homes with me, until I finally found something nine and a half months later. In the eighteen years that have followed, never once have I had an overnight guest. Three years were spent in two shared living situations that could not accommodate overnight stays. The four months I spent in my first public housing apartment, and the nearly fifteen years that I have been in my current public housing apartment, I have been the only one sleeping in my apartment, every single night.
I am comfortable with this arrangement. I simply no longer have the energy, much less the room for overnight guests. I sometimes wish I did have a bigger place with a guest room and occasional visits for a few days from friends, but all I can afford is a small subsidized bachelor unit. I have on occasion had people over for dinner or brunch or coffee, but the fear of bedbugs as well as the need to find my own refuge in my home have made hospitality a tiring process.
I have to admit, that even though I am recovered from PTSD, I still need to carefully steward my energy, and entertaining visitors sucks the life out of me, as much as I enjoy doing it. I need my mojo for my job, which pays the rent. I still see my friends, usually in the coffee shop and at an early hour, or for a walk in the park, or whatever. I still have a natural hospitality reflex and I try to vent it by expressing friendliness and kindness to strangers. I don't always do that well, but there are some days. Today, on two occasions I was able to do a small thing to help a stranger. In a coffee shop, as I saw a customer trying to get comfortable I carefully moved the empty chair at my table further away to make him more comfortable. Later, as I was waiting for the elevator doors to close, I saw a man come in and I opened the doors for him. He seemed appreciative. Both strangers seemed visibly moved when I said to them that sometimes it's good to be reminded we are not alone.
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