Is There Room In Your Inn?

In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. (This was the first census that took place while Quirinius was governor of Syria.) And everyone went to their own town to register.

So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them. (Luke 2:1-8 NIV)

I have a confession to make.  There are times when I reflect more of the innkeepers in Luke 2, who had no room for the Savior of the world, than the one who was born in the stable and laid in the manger.  I am not proud of my heart, which is often crowded with fear rather than open to hospitality. It has haunted me like a personal visit from a ghost of Christmas past, until two Christmases ago.

My husband and our twenty-two-year-old daughter, Anna, were with me on the quiet Christmas morning of 2013. It would be just the three of us celebrating together.  I missed our other daughter and son-in-law and the extended family.

My daughter went to a combined AA/NA step meeting at noon. She called and said there were several people at the meeting who had nowhere to go for Christmas dinner.  She asked if they could join us. Knowing Anna, they had probably been invited already and her call was just a formality, because my daughter has hospitality down right.  In her heart, there is always room at the table.

I admit I was initially frustrated. Anxiety shot through my veins and nasty old fear reared its ugly head. But then Jesus gently held a mirror to my heart.

What in the world is wrong with me, Lord? Why do I act like there is no room at my table? Why am I even the slightest bit hesitant of the privilege of having guests take a seat at our table, especially a Christmas dinner?

I asked God to change my attitude, enabling me to welcome whomever came home with Anna.  A question formed within my spirit: Who are my brothers and sisters? 

A shift happened in me when my daughter came in with her friends, including a single mom with a four-year-old daughter. They were no longer strangers.  They were guests with faces and names and stories.

Isn’t it strange when the door cracks open, when light enters? Light fell upon my heart and revealed its struggle. I want to be open, generous, and loving but on my terms and my timetable. More often than not, my initial reaction to any opportunity to practice hospitality is selfish, anxious, and fearful.

When I greeted our guests on that Christmas, I saw something I recognized, which pierced my heart. I saw weariness and hardship. I was reminded of my home life as a child. I remembered the pain of being on the outside, of needing a place to lay my head, share a meal, and retreat from the craziness of the world.  I have also experienced what God hopes for: a welcoming embrace, food for the malnourished soul, a place to breathe deeply in the safety and security of love.

At one point that afternoon, when I was between cooking and baking projects, I peeked into the living room. The young mom had fallen asleep. Others were working on a puzzle and watching movies. Anna had found some children’s books and toys packed away in the top of a closet. She was reading to the little girl.

I was given a gift that day. It didn’t come wrapped in beautiful paper and bows.

It was joy.

[Tweet “I am learning that in God’s inn and at God’s glorious table, there is room for everyone. “] This is the joy.

Terri Fullerton is a wife, mother, empty nester, and perpetual dog owner. She enjoys writing, reading, photography, hiking, traveling and collecting fossils. She values reflective questions and a dry sense of humor. She blogs at terrifullerton.com.