By: Ivonne J. Hernandez

​Hospitality is one of the charisms my husband and I share, both individually, and as a couple. People often tell us that they just feel comfortable in our home. As hosts, we do not get stressed out. We do not rush from the table to clean up; we don’t fuss over a spilled drink or a burnt side dish. Once our guests arrive, it is all about the time we share together. It is about telling stories while creating new ones. It is about living. It is about love. But hospitality begins way before anyone shows up--it begins with an invitation. 

​“What can I bring?” This is usually the first thing I hear right after someone accepts an invitation to join us at our home for dinner. Why is this? Some might say it is the result of social expectations--we are taught it is not polite to show up anywhere empty-handed. But I think there is more to this “almost” universal response. Like a great choir or symphony, our communities are more than just the sum of its parts. We are meant to participate, to belong. We are not extras in a film. Each one of us has something we bring to the table, be it the physical one or the metaphorical one. But we don’t get to choose what we need to bring. We need to know what is needed, what is required of us. 

​I heartily dislike potlucks. By a potluck I mean a table with a procession of slow cookers, each with a surprise dish behind every lid. The result? Dishes that do not go together piled next to each other on a plate. I prefer it when someone is directing, and the parts come together in beautiful harmony. A host can ask guests to bring something in particular. It is even better when they are asked to bring something they love to make--something they will be happy to share and feel proud of. The end result, rather than a collection of individual dishes, is a beautiful meal--a true celebration. 

​As Eucharistic people we have been called and invited to a banquet. The King of the Universe has prepared the table. Each one of us is invited to share of ourselves, but not haphazardly, without direction. We do not rely on luck for a well-balanced table. The Host knows our strengths and weaknesses and wants to weave us together for the great celebration. More than the sum of our parts, we bring our unique gifts to become a new creation. We share of ourselves and are satisfied in the great celebration. 

You have received the invitation… Will you attend? What are you bringing? Oh, and bring a friend! There is always room at the table.

I find it interesting that our society seems to be fixated on certain aspects of death, like zombies, haunted houses, and Halloween. People pay a lot of money to go somewhere and be “scared to death.” But then, when it is time to talk about preparing for our own death, people think it is morbid and turn quickly to avoidance. How often do we think about death? A few times a year? A few times a month? A few times a week? Every day? And when we do think about death, what do we think? How do we feel? Is there curiosity, anger, fear, sadness? Is there avoidance or resignation? Is there ever a welcome?

This is a short excerpt from the Office of Readings for All Souls Day, a day we think about our dearly departed, a day we think about death. Or perhaps I should say, a day the Church invites us to think about death. And not only to think about it but to pray about it. When we remember our loved ones who have passed from this life and pray for their eternal rest, we also strengthen the hope that we too will rise again with Christ, not only on the last day but also today, as we rise from our pain and our fears. 

This love that was poured out on the Cross is in the cup He gives us to drink (cf. Mark 10:38). When we accept the pain and suffering that life brings, and bring it in prayer to God, we find the love that casts out all fear (cf. 1 John 4:18). And it is that love that will transform our wounds into rivers of flowing grace, into witnesses of His love.

The tables were overflowing with canned goods, toiletries, and water bottles. A few feet away, boxes of donuts, breakfast sandwiches, and hot coffee waited for us. Smiling strangers welcomed us as we walked into this last-minute reception. We got a call the previous night saying that the community had heard they were hosting evacuees from Hurricane Milton and they were organizing a breakfast for us. “Where are you coming from?”… “Tampa,” we said. Their faces were moved with concern and compassion, waiting, wanting to hear our story… Did our house survive the storm? Have we heard from our family back home? They wanted to do something for us.

Four days before, we had boarded up our home, packed our belongings, loaded up the RV, and drove North. After days of praying and deliberating, we decided this was the right course of action for us. After two long days on the road, we arrived at our temporary home. An RV park in Alabama that welcomed evacuees from the storm at no cost. Not knowing what would happen, we needed the flexibility of an open-ended stay, a safe place to wait, a refuge from the storm. One of our sons stayed behind in Florida, so my body was here, safe, but a piece of my heart was back home.

The day the storm was set to make landfall was spent glued to the news, watching every wobble and bump. This was personal.  A Category 5 hurricane was on a direct path to our home. As I zoomed on the map and followed the dark line of its projected path, I knew the names of the streets. I knew where my family and friends lived. Streets I drove through every week, a concert hall I had sung in just the previous week, all in the path of this storm. I prayed everyone had found a safe place to shelter as we watched and waited for this terrible storm. Thankfully, our home was spared and so was our son’s. Our friends and family are safe, though some have different levels of damage to their homes. I find myself once again glued to the news, trying to get a good picture of the situation and figuring out when it is safe to start the trek back home. I see the flooded streets, and I know the places. Though I do not recognize all the faces, I see my neighbors. The phrase “hits close to home” takes on a new level of understanding… this is personal… this is close… this is home.

And I think of how this is with God. How He is with us in our suffering, because in Him, each one of our storms hits close to home. He knows our names, he knows each street we have walked on. He knows when our hearts are weary and heavy and burdened, and He wants to comfort us. 

When I walked into this unplanned reception prepared by strangers trying to comfort us, my heart was moved and I felt God’s love. I didn’t know how much stress I was carrying until someone offered to take a load off my shoulders. The kindness of strangers at a moment like this was a healing balm for my soul; their hearts were a place of refuge in the storm. May God bless them and protect them as they navigate their own storms. May they find friends and strangers to help them carry their loads. May we be Christ to each other on our journey home.