Hospitality in God's House

As we were pulling out of the driveway yesterday morning to go to Sunday School, it started. Sure, the newscasters were making a big deal about our first snow of the season, but you never know when to believe the hype these days. It was already sticking to the road as we made our way out of the neighborhood. This would be the part where I started in on my children for not wearing proper coats. I mean, really. It was snowing. I decided that they are now at the age where I’m no longer going to tell them a thousand times; I’m just going to let them be cold. And feel guilty about my failure as a mother. By the time we got to church the snow was coming down pretty good. That’s when I realized I really wasn’t in the best shoes for this. But what could I say, they looked awesome with my new dress. And at least I was wearing a proper coat. So my knightly husband dropped us off at the front entrance, and went to park the car himself. I grabbed two bulletins for us on my way into class. When Matt meandered in, he started thumbing through the announcements and prayer requests. That’s when he nudged me, pointing to our names on the greeters schedule for the day. Missed that one somehow. So at the proper time, he did his dutiful early duck out of Sunday School to begin greeting the early birds filing in for church. But we didn’t even have half of the Sunday School attendance. I pretty much figured being a greeter wouldn’t be a two person job. The snow was going to be keeping most people home. It made sense to finish out the lesson and then join him afterwards. And so it was a bit irritating when one of the deacons beckoned me, saying Matt needed me. Really? As I moseyed over, I saw that instead of Matt doing the greeting, it was the deacon. “Where’s Matt?” Randy explained to me that Matt was spreading salt on the sidewalks. Then I felt kind of bad for being irritated. I peaked outside to see my husband with no hat, no gloves, terrible shoes for the snow, in his church sweater, scattering salt on the sidewalks. Apparently I didn’t notice that in our rush to get out of the house, running late as usual, Matt didn’t bother grabbing a coat either. I looked at Randy and half joked, “Well today we’ll see who the risk-takers and the extreme routine-followers are.” That’s when someone came over and said that the elders have decided to shorten the service to the lighting of the advent candle, prayer, singing, and Bible reading, without the full sermon. The roads were really getting bad and they didn’t want people driving in much worse. The snow was still piling on without any sign of stopping. Our pastor’s son, who is part of the worship team, called everyone to sit in the first few pews so that our small crowd could be closer to one another for worship. So I went and joined our children, thinking Matt would be right behind me. But he wasn’t. The music started and the kids looked in the back of the sanctuary. “Where’s dad?” I shrugged my shoulders. He had been helping people walk up the sidewalk, and escorting those to their car who thought is would be wise to leave after Sunday School. I figured there must have been a latecomer he was helping in. But Matt never showed during our short service. Of course, I went looking for him afterwards. He was out front shoveling in the downpour of snow. He looked like the half-melted snowman-kid on the Campbell’s Soup commercial. Matt proceeded to escort all the single women, and even some of the men who could use a little help to keep steady on the way to their car. And he kept shoveling. The kids and I sent everyone off at the front door like it was our house. Finally, it was just our pastor, his son, me, and the kids left. As Matt was pulling up the car for us, we agreed that I would make sure the front door was locked while leaving with the kids, and they would go out the back door and lock that up. I guess it wasn’t just the risk takers and the extreme routine followers that showed up to church yesterday. The hospitable made an appearance as well, my husband leading the cause. As I climbed into the car, I smiled at my soaking, chivalrous chauffeur, who found our son’s knitted Mohawk hat in the console, and was wearing it proud. He drove us home to safety.