At My Door

Life Stuff

habits of hospitality

Who would be knocking this early? The children had left for school moments before—was a school mom stopping in for coffee?

A blur of bright orange waited on the other side of the frosted glass. I opened the door to the frigid air and a friendly-looking man. A Hydro One truck idled behind him.

"Good morning. My name is Clay,” he replied to my greeting. “I’m sending my crew down your way one of these next few days to scout out the area for maintenance work. We’d be cutting down the trees on the road side of that line there”—he gestured toward the line in question—“and then shredding them and eventually planting lawn there. It’s within our jurisdiction, but we still like to notify the homeowners first.”

“Sure. I appreciate you stopping in. I’m sure we don’t have complaints, but I’ll say something to my husband.”

Clay fished around in his pocket. “I’ll leave my card, then if you have objections you can get in touch. It’s preventative maintenance, really—we do our job, you keep your power…” he shrugged.

“Exactly. My husband is usually happy about cutting down trees, so I don’t imagine you’ll hear back from us.”

A few hours later, the snow squeaked again. I looked out the window. “Who ever?” I said to Heather, who was putting cookies on a pan. We curiously watched the people in a small blue car. “Maybe it’s someone for Northwood,” I said. “Although, they don’t have a trailer or anything.” We frequently had to reroute sawmill customers whose GPS’s didn’t take them to the correct location.

The passenger opened the window and threw something out. The driver removed his hat, looked in the rearview mirror, and smoothed his hair. Finally, he got out and lumbered toward the house, carrying a paper. I went to the door.

A droopy-eyed young man stood before me when I opened to his knock. “Am I at the right place?” At least he had combed his hair.

“I’m not sure—where do you want to be?”

“I have a meeting with Greg at eleven? Is this Northwoods Lumber?” Someone with a resume for a job interview. It’s Northwood, singular, but I didn’t correct him.

I gave him directions and returned upstairs to find Heather doubled over with laughter.

“It sounded so funny!” she gasped. “’I don’t know—where do you want to be?’” she mimicked. “All cheerfully.”

“I didn’t sound rude, did I?” I do get tired of people coming onto the yard looking for the mill—I mean, it’s obvious it’s the wrong place—but for each person, it’s the first time and I don’t want to make them feel stupid.

“No, it just amused me.”

“Yeah, I can see how that sounded kinda dumb.” I joined her laughter.

Not long after, the phone rang. Our neighbour was making dessert for hot lunch at school the next day and she had run out of strawberry gelatin powder. Would we have any?

We did. In a few minutes, she was at the door for the little box. Heather and I were preparing to go to town, and I had laid it on the table in the entry in case we would be gone before the neighbour got there. So I didn’t meet her at the door, but exchanged a few words with her from the kitchen.

Rarely do I have this many different people at my door in one day, much less all in a single morning. Thinking about his led to me wonder, how am I treating the people who come to my door?

We often think of hospitality as providing food or lodging, but it can simply be the reception or treatment I offer to the people at my door. I can offer hospitality by the kind of treatment and reception I give to these people. I can offer a cordial disposition even to people who do not step inside my home.

I remember a spring soon after we were married, when I wanted to buy bedding plants from a neighbouring community. Not yet familiar with the area, I became confused about which house I wanted to arrive at, and finally drove in a lane to ask directions.

I knocked at the screen door. Footsteps thumped inside, and the inner wooden door opened far enough for a face to look out. “Hello?”

“I’m looking for the place where they sell bedding plants,” I said. “I think I missed a turn somewhere.”

The woman gave me directions to find the right place, and I thanked her. The whole conversation took place with one door closed between us and one only partially open, and me feeling uncomfortably like an intruder.

I try to remember how it feels to be the person outside the door.

In our culture and country, rarely is there a reason not to open the door wide, or to step outside to speak with the people who may come to the door.

Hospitality means that people at my door will be met with a friendly face. If they have questions, I will answer them to the best of my knowledge, my speech gracious. If they need directions, I will give them kindly, not condescendingly. If they have come to borrow or return, they are worthy of manners of common courtesy—"please” and “thank you” and “enjoy the rest of your day.” If it’s a delivery person who requires my signature, I want my demeanor to be pleasant. If it’s a friend I know well, on an informal errand, I sometimes call out, “come in!” without going to the door. The voice they hear should be glad and welcoming, and I should show up as soon as I can.

I want to practice habits of hospitality with the people I meet at my door. The hydro maintenance man, the confused, the borrower, the friend I know well—these are all worthy of courtesy.

This essay was first published in the Commonplace Journal, “Rhythms and Habits” issue