The Lost Art of Hospitality

The Lost Art of Hospitality

Over two and a half years ago, my two friends and I were welcomed into the home of a missionary couple who lived in England. We had spent almost a week in London, living on soggy tuna sandwiches, traversing the underground, wiping soot from our noses, and sleeping fitfully on the floor of a woman’s flat.

Therefore, when this couple—who none of us knew very well—bestowed upon us such hospitality I have never experienced before or since, I was almost weepy with gratitude.

The first night, they allowed us to sample some of the local cheeses (stinking bishop, anyone?), along with black grapes and gourmet crackers arranged on a crystal tray. We then ate a hot, delicious meal off of antique silver and wiped our mouths on linen napkins. Their home was modest—the walls white and thick—yet accented with the most exquisite relics from yesteryear.

The couple had positioned, next to our beds, a little dish of chocolates. Everything in the dwelling, it seemed, had been arranged to accommodate our stay and to please the aesthetic eye.

Honestly, when I learned we were staying with missionaries, I wondered if we girls would be allowed to wear pants and imagined we would be sleeping on the floor like a stack of cordwood covered with scratchy sheets.

Instead, these missionaries had taken it upon themselves to lavish love upon waifish strangers who could offer almost nothing in return.

In three days, they took us on a grand tour: Shakespeare’s home and gardens, the Rosings, Burghley House, Lincolnshire, where a portion of the 2005 version of Pride & Prejudice had been filmed; we sat in the sunshine, dining on cream tea in the Cotswolds, and curled up at their home—after sampling the quintessential UK fare of fish and chips, of course—and watched BBC’s version of Pride and Prejudice.

Those three days were the highlight of my trip, as we discussed art, love, religion, and everything in between. The missionaries lived frugally and simply, as any missionary must, and yet—they lived beautifully, too.

In those three days, they taught us miserly penny pinchers–who had eaten soggy tuna fish sandwiches instead of London’s touted curry because we didn’t want to spend another five-pound note–how to live beautifully as well.

Now, whenever I fill a dish with foil-wrapped chocolates, wrap my daughter in a plush towel, eat a good paring of cheese, arrange a wildflower bouquet on my table, make myself a cup of tea in the evenings, I think of that generous missionary couple: a definition I thought was a necessary contradiction before.

They changed our lives by opening their homes and opening our eyes to the beauty of the world around us. Their hospitality was a priceless gift: one which I hope my family can also extend to road waifs who can offer us almost nothing in return.

Do you think hospitality is becoming a lost art? If so, how do we revive it?