True hospitality consists of giving the best of yourself to your guests.
~Eleanor Roosevelt
We’d always had a traditional Thanksgiving dinner with our parents and siblings. But one year, my sister Karen warned us she would be late because she had to work a shift at the restaurant where she was a part-time waitress. We waited and waited, nibbling on carrot sticks and worrying as the food cooled.
Finally, Karen arrived at 5:45 p.m. and she was not alone.
Inside the doorway, towering over her, was a scruffy-faced guy wearing torn jeans and a flannel shirt that stopped two inches short of his wrists. He gave a hesitant smile and raised his hand to wave “hello” at the four of us. Karen cheerfully explained that David was someone she had met a few days earlier when leaving work. He was going through hard times and sometimes stood outside her workplace asking for change for meals.
My parents looked skeptical. Karen started talking faster. “You said one time that we could invite a friend to Thanksgiving dinner.”
My dad harrumphed and sat down at the table. My mother started asking when she could have possibly said that, but then she stopped and said, “Well, um… never mind. Let’s all sit down!” And then she started asking questions.
David turned out to be a college student who struggled to find enough work to cover tuition and rent. With loan payments pending and rent due, he’d given up his apartment and was living out of his car. Between gulping down large spoonfuls of cranberry sauce, he answered every question and repeatedly thanked my parents for letting him eat with us.
My older sister and I eagerly watched the back and forth between our mom, David, and our little sister, Karen. We were fascinated by this situation, and wondered how much trouble Karen would be in with our parents after our surprise guest left. And we also wondered if he was going to eat all the cranberry sauce!
Finally, the interrogation ended when my dad said, “Bette, let him eat.”
We all ate in silence for the next couple of minutes until my dad put down his fork and cleared his throat. The quieter of my two parents, he had only one question — an inquiry about how well David’s car was running.
“Sir, there is a little rattle, but I’m thinking the undercarriage is okay for now. It’s kind of you to ask.”
I noticed my dad sit up a little straighter.
“David, let’s check that out before you leave so you are safe on the road.”
By the time dinner was over, David’s presence went from being an outlandish display of Karen’s spontaneous nature to a wonderful memory of how my parents respond to unexpected surprises. Even better, they started a new tradition.
In subsequent years, each of us was encouraged to invite someone to join us for Thanksgiving dinner. It was a welcome new tradition for our family: the act of sharing not only food but also ourselves and our blessings.
My folks’ only request was that they get some kind of notice so they could make enough food for everyone, especially enough cranberry sauce.
— Susan Bartlett —
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