How my Grandfather's decorative rock is helping me build the foundation for my own hospitality.
My beloved grandfather, who we all called Papaw, had one spot in his house where he surveyed his kingdom. His front porch. From this shady spot, he laughed, entertained, and build a reputation as one of the friendliest residents on Gap Branch. Everyone loved my Papaw, and I was his perpetual shadow, growing and learning alongside him.
I eagerly listened to stories about our town and our family's history as we shared a frosty glass of ice water and my favorite snacks. From that front porch, we connected to others intentionally, not out of need, but out of desire.
I realize now how much of an influence he was on my hospitality skills. I not only learned the art of telling an amazing story but how to be an engaged and enthusiastic listener. No one passed his front porch without a greeting. And he tailored that greeting specifically to each person because he took the time to know them and their stories. He offered everyone refreshments, whether that was a piece of apple he was carving with his pocket knife, or our mutual favorite, unnaturally-bright orange circus peanuts. If you were on his front porch, you belonged. You mattered. You were the most important person in his life in those moments. Above all else, he made you laugh - his effortless magic I attempt to recreate often.
His early tutelage of how to love others remains the foundation of how I interact with my guests today. I fail often. My front porch occasionally needs a good cleaning, but I'm committed to having people in my home and in our lives. I want them to feel that in those moments, they are my only priority.
Years after he passed in 1996, that front porch became almost an unbearable burden for me. That front porch and empty chair served as a visual reminder of how much my family had lost and how drastically our lives changed without the anchor that kept our family from drifting apart. He was the first person I ever lost. I was broken and lost without him and it took me years to recover.
In a cruel twist of fate, our family was dealt another devastating blow. For years, we had warned my grandmother about smoking while on oxygen therapy. On a sunny day in April 2013, she drifted off to sleep while smoking, leading to a series of catastrophes that resulted in us losing not only her but the home we all cherished. That's the thing about fire - it wipes away things, but it can't destroy memories.
Days later, my husband drove me up Gap Branch, where family members were still sifting through the ashes. Buried among the debris of the front porch, my eye was drawn to a shade of peach, remarkably similar to those circus peanuts we enjoyed decades earlier.
I bent down to run my hands over the ashes covering this decorative rock, and God brought to mind the story of the wise man who built his house upon the rock. When the rains and wind blew, it didn't fall because it was founded on the rock. It was strong and solid. It would survive anything. Including fire and the agonizing loss of loved ones. (Read more from Jesus' parable in Matthew 7:24-27).
My husband gently wrapped his arms around me as I wept. In barely an audible whisper, I asked him to put this dirty, ashen-stained rock in the trunk of our car. He didn't question my strange decision, he didn't wonder why I would want a dirty battered rock, he loved me without question.
In the 14 years we owned our home in Bardstown, we entertained guests less than a dozen times. We commuted to work and by the time we arrived home late in the evening, we had met our quota of people time. It was easy to lead an isolated life. We had each other and, our family, and a handful of friends. What else was there to life?
This had never seemed strange to me until we became friends with our neighbors Adam and Ashley. They were the first neighbors to knock on our door and introduce themselves. They actively sought out our friendship. They wanted us to be part of their community. Months after that fateful knock, Adam observed something so profound it made me reevaluate what my front porch looked like to others.
"You guys must spend a lot of time in bed. The lights in your house are never on." he amused.
And it was true! We went to work, came home, and went straight to bed. We dined in bed, we watched movies in bed, we spent quality time in bed...ok, not what you're thinking...
We had completely shut ourselves off from the people around us. I thought about my Papaw and how he would gently remind me that most people don't stop by unannounced. You have to put out the welcome mat. Or a welcome rock.
In our new home, I vowed that we would wear out the hinges on our front door.
Since 2017, we've housed three of our ministers. We've hosted a weekly Bible study for 30+ people. I've served so many helpings of brinner that even Ron Swanson would be proud of us.
It took an ash-stained rock to remind me that family isn't genetic. It's who you welcome in and treat as family.
Our dearest friends Reggie and Phoebe called last Saturday asking if they could stay with us for a few days. They have recently moved to North Carolina to be closer to family, despite my protests. They would be in town a few days while closing on their old home and just needed a place to lay their heads and visit with old friends.
We were just finishing up the big home office makeover and our house was a complete wreck. But I never hesitated. That's what my Papaw would have done. Even if he were out of apples and circus peanuts, he would be eager to welcome you in and treat you like family.
I spent all day Sunday washing guest linens and deep cleaning the spare bathroom. I wiped down surfaces that had been neglected for weeks. I wanted everything to be perfect for them.
I shopped for their favorite drinks and snacks and bought ingredients for plenty of meals geared around Phoebe's dietary restrictions. We know them because we invested time in getting to know them. They, and so many others, are precious to us because they not only love us, they let us love them. Reggie calls me Sis, and Phoebe's never fails to greet you without a kiss on the cheek. When Phoebe underwent a stem cell transplant in 2017, I found myself visiting their hotel room near the hospital, bringing them food, love, and encouragement. I don't think I am capable of such generosity of spirit. I know it comes from the lessons of my Papaw and my trust in God.
Friendships like this aren't possible when you neglect your front porch, whether that's a physical place you sit or the door to your heart. I keep thinking about the 14 years we lost by living in our bedroom with the lights off. How many people passed by us in need of a friendly conversation, or the offer of refreshments? How many people could have been positively affected by our relationship when I chose to wear pajamas and lounge for the day?
Mid-way through the preparations for Reggie and Phoebe's arrival, I thought about Papaw's rock and I got a little weepy. A few years ago, I reached a milestone I wasn't happy about - I have officially lived longer without him than with him in my life.
My Papaw never lived long enough to see me graduate from high school. I never got to call him with the news I was going to college on a full scholarship. He never got to meet my incredible husband. He wasn't there making silly faces in the front row the day we married, or see the incredible life we've built for ourselves.
But he's still here with us. Maybe not merely in spirit, but always in our hearts and through our actions. The next time friends ask if they can use our house as an Airbnb, I want the linens to smell great and you feel like you belong. The next time the doorbell rings, I want to greet you, no matter if I'm wearing makeup or I look like an extra on The Walking Dead. The next time our neighbors' adorable kids open a lemonade stand, I will be running over to buy a glass.
I want to be the neighbor or friend who knows you and your story because my Papaw taught me that people matter and loving them is the most important thing you can do. I will probably fail and have. A lot. But I'm committed.
Thanks for reading!
~ Christy
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