A few weeks ago, after worship, I noticed a man and a young woman standing outside the church’s patio doors with suitcases, looking a little uncertain.
I was headed their direction when I saw they had found our still-unlocked front doors and come inside.
The man introduced himself and his teenage daughter. We had a pleasant, short chat in which I learned they were United Methodists from Los Alamos, New Mexico. They were in Ames for the Odyssey of the Mind world finals at Iowa State. They showed up here because, Phillip said, he was pretty sure this United Methodist church would take them in. Their ride to the airport in Des Moines had fallen through, and they needed a place to wait for the Uber they had arranged as an alternative.
That was it. They weren’t asking for money. They didn’t need a meal. They just needed somewhere to be for a few hours.
Of course we said yes.
Our fellowship time was winding down by then, but still people introduced themselves, shared conversation, and made it clear these folks were welcome. We showed them the couches, told them where they could find snacks—upstairs in the Wesley Student Lounge!—and let them stay while we all left for our Sunday afternoon activities, or naps.
It wasn’t anything extraordinary. It was simply the sort of thing most of us would do without thinking much about it.
A few days later, Phillip sent us a note of thanks. He said he’s the Director of Faith Development at First UMC in Los Alamos. He framed his thanks by describing a lesson he had literally just taught his teenage students a few weeks earlier. He had taught them that this is the kind of thing the church is called to do. He taught them that as Methodists, “we have thousands of homes away from home…. [A]nytime we see a Methodist Church, clock it, because if you need something, they will be willing to do what they can, when they can.”
Phillip had literally said something similar to me in our brief conversation when we met. In their few days in Ames, he had noticed our building—including our pride flag—and had stored that memory away for exactly the occasion that arose when their ride fell through.
His note continued with thanks for us being “a great example of open hearts, open minds, open doors.” He was grateful not just for the story he would tell his students, but also, he said, for this demonstration to his daughter “that this stuff her dad talks about all the time is kinda true.”
I smiled when I read that.
Because all of us need reminders like that from time to time. We need stories that prove the things we say about kindness, hospitality, community, and love are more than aspirations. Every now and then, we need to see them embodied in ordinary people doing ordinary things.
I’ve been thinking about Phillip’s note this week as we approach our nation’s 250th anniversary celebration.
I’m grateful for memories, and stories, that remind us that what we hope is true about ourselves really is—at least some of the time.
We’re a little bit at risk of forgetting that, in this America we inhabit right now. We disagree about so many things. We don’t see our history the same way. We do theology differently. Our politics and our heroes differ.
Across all those differences, it can be hard to remember that we’re still “we the people,” of one nation.
Phillip’s note reminded me of a habit that is woven deeply into our nation’s story when we’re at our best: making room for people.
His phrase—”thousands of homes away from home”—feels important. At our best, that’s exactly what churches do. It’s what neighborhoods do. It’s what communities do. They become places where strangers are welcomed, where relationships are formed, and where people discover they belong.
We’ve seen glimpses of that this summer as visitors from around the globe have arrived for the World Cup and found communities eager to offer directions, recommendations, assistance, and welcome. One of the best things about any community—whether a church, a town, or a nation—is its ability to make room for people.
At our best, that’s who “we the people” are. And, despite all our disagreements, I think it’s who most of us still want to be.
None of us are perfect people. None of us always get it right. But a lot of the time, we’re people capable of opening a door, offering a welcome, and helping a stranger feel at home.
Like we did a few weeks ago. We gave a father and daughter a couch and some conversation. In return, Phillip gave us something. He reminded us that these things we want to celebrate are—in fact—at least some of the time—kinda true.
That’s quite a compliment.
At our best, that’s what most of us hope for: to make the things we say about kindness, hospitality, community, and love a little more true. And every now and then, by God’s grace, they are.
