Bless this mess!

As newlyweds, we happily rearranged our furniture every Tuesday night, so we could squeeze 10 other adults into our one-bedroom apartment for Bible study. It was squishy, intimate and relaxed. We loved it.

Having people over without needing to tidy the place perfectly beforehand was something we prioritised. We wanted people to be welcomed in to the reality of our lives, rather than saying no to an impromptu visit because we hadn’t had a chance to make things look ‘nice enough’ for them first.

As we added kids to the mix, that became not just a value, but an essential practice—if we’d waited until the house was tidy before people could come have a cuppa, with a two-year-old and newborn twins, then we would never have had people over again!

Breastfeeding our eldest, then in the years after that, the twins, meant I had a full-time load just keeping up with the milk demands of our new tiny family members, let alone doing anything else around the house. Mostly I managed to roll with it, trying not to assume people were judging me for the state of my house while they picked their way carefully through the toys on the floor, to perch on top of the perpetual, regenerating laundry pile. Mostly.

When we moved to France, I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to continue to hold on to this value. French people are sophisticated, I’d heard, always well-dressed and with their tables set to perfection. French people cook multiple courses for lunch and would never eat on the run. Will it be rude, I worried if we’re too relaxed about having people over, too Aussie? How can we be hospitable in France, without erasing who we are?

It turns out that prioritising tidying up wasn’t even within my control. We’d moved countries with three children (aged three and under), who were perpetually catching viruses. My husband and I were both under immense stress, as we adapted to life in a new and very different country, moving house twice the first year, a third time the year after. Tidying was going to have to wait.

More than the physical messiness though, I was messy. Being emotionally vulnerable isn’t off brand for me, but at least in Australia, it was my choice. In France, I’d cry unexpectedly over small things, like getting lost trying to find the tomato sauce at the giant grocery store, and big things, like the bakery letting me come back to pay for my baguettes later, when my card unexpectedly wouldn’t work. I had no words to explain or ask for their kindness—they just gave it. Without any words, I’d just cry in response—not a lovely, sweet tearing up, more the uncontrollable public crying that tells everyone that you’re dealing with an enormous loss. 

Unbeknownst to me, I was dealing with a great loss. I was grieving the death of myself as a capable adult. The woman who was able to be friendly to neighbours, who knew the answers to her children’s questions about what to expect in their day at school, who could drive—and park!—while holding a conversation, who could go to the grocery shop and leave with everything on the list. That woman was dead, gone, nowhere to be found.

I didn’t want to invite people into that mess. They didn’t know me as a capable and ‘normal’ person from before. They only knew this strange, messy version of me, and without my past self for context, they might assume (horror of horrors) that this incapable, needy, helpless person was all there was to me.

All they would see was me nodding along furiously to a conversation, but understanding almost nothing, evidenced by my blank, panicked face when I realised a question had been thrown my way.

They'd see me out at the park with my kids, all shivering and complaining that they want to go home—because I didn’t even think to buy mittens and it was too cold to touch the play equipment.

Maybe they’d even see me through the window at school, crying all over my child’s teacher as I struggled to mime my way through a parent–teacher interview.

In short, they wouldn't see me as someone to compare upwards with, but someone to compare downwards to—someone they might choose to be kind to, but without expecting much in return. I was no longer welcoming people into my home as hospitality. Instead, I required welcoming from others everywhere I went—as a lost, often sad, confused sojourner. 

I was suddenly the person other people could thank God that they weren't like.

I hadn't realised before moving to France how much my sense of self was based on myself as a giver of hospitality more than a receiver, the scale always carefully balanced to be a bit more on the ‘giver’ side (based on my internal, infallible calculations). I was someone who was invited to parties, and could invite others back in return, who gave directions to people who were lost and could politely request directions myself if needed, who brought meals over when people were sick and was blessed for months with meals after the birth of my kids. 

In those first few months in France, I could do nothing but accept the hospitality of others wherever I went, and no amount of mental gymnastics could put me in the position of ‘giver’ in return.

Part of the problem was that, in my study of biblical hospitality over the years, I’d always imagined myself as the one giving it—because that’s what the verses that speak explicitly about hospitality remind us to do! We’re told to offer hospitality without grumbling, to be hospitable, to not neglect it, to show it, all actions that are focused on what we give outwards to others. I thought of hospitality mostly as a gift I gave to others, because that’s where these verses place the focus.

I hadn’t factored in the relational aspect that’s always at play within hospitality. You always need at least one person to be the recipient, otherwise hospitality is just you sitting in your welcoming house, food on the table … on your own. And Jesus has called me in my relationships with others to be filled with the fruit of the Spirit always, to be characterised by things like patience, self-control, and kindness, both when I am welcomed, and as I welcome others.

Almost 2000 years ago, Paul wrote a letter to a fledgling church in Philippi, a major Greek city at the time. In it, he encouraged the followers of Jesus, the Messiah, to welcome one another relationally, with humility:

So if our shared life in the Messiah brings you any comfort; if love still has the power to make you cheerful; if we really do have a partnership in the spirit; if your hearts are at all moved with affection and sympathy— then make my joy complete! Bring your thinking into line with one another.

Here’s how to do it. Hold on to the same love; bring your innermost lives into harmony; fix your minds on the same object. Never act out of selfish ambition or vanity; instead, regard everybody else as your superior. Look after each other’s best interests, not your own. Philippians 2:1–4 (NTFE)

These verses remind us that, whether we’re giving the invitation or receiving it, whether we’re the one explaining the local custom or the person trying to figure out why all the shops are inexplicably closed, we are called to look after each other’s best interests, to treat others as important, rather than chasing importance ourselves.

My determination to be the one giving hospitality, to be the knowledgeable one—in short, my lack of humility—was getting in the way of my ability to receive the welcome around me. To be clear, there wasn’t always a welcome given! There’s a reason French culture has a reputation for being closed and unwelcoming, because often (at least to me, as an Aussie) it is. People are quick to tell you when you’re doing something wrong, not to show you the right way in advance. But my desire to be thought of as better than others, to be seen as superior, was making the adjustment to the welcomes that were being given in our host culture more difficult than it needed to be.

Learning to rest in my new role as an acceptor of hospitality, the one who is on the edges of social circles, the one who doesn’t get the joke, who doesn’t understand the acronym, who may not even understand the words that are being spoken, is a gift. It doesn’t exclude me from hospitality, it just excludes me from my self-given role as giver of hospitality. It’s often undeserved and unearned, and that reminds me of the even bigger gifts that I’ve been given by God’s grace: a welcome into his family that is undeserved, unmerited, free from hidden clauses and requirements. A gift.

We’re hosting our first ‘big’ event in France this weekend, a gathering of multiple groups of friends in our house. But even though we’re hosting, this time around I know that I won’t just have the role of giver of hospitality. I will be receiving it, too. And I’ve discovered it’s the kind of hospitality I like the most. Thank you, Lord, for blessing this mess!

A longer version of this article originally appeared at ‘One Small Spark’.

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Alice Warren is the author of A Godparent’s Handbook: Nurturing Your Godchild’s Faith for Life. Originally from Sydney, Alice now lives with her husband and three children near Paris, where they are serving the local French church. She reflects on life, faith and parenting in another country at One Small Spark.

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