My mom had a cousin named Bubs. Yes, Bubs. I think her legal name was Loyala, so I’m not sure what happened.
To top it off, Bubs’ husband was Bob. Bob and Bubs. I only remember seeing them at funerals, or if my mom went for a visit and took me along. So I didn’t know them very well, but well enough that Bubs would grab me for a big hug when she’d see me.
When Scott and I lived in Maple Ridge, in our adorable little town house with just Andrew, Nicolas, and baby Elijah, Bob and Bubs lived on the same street. I admired their house and beautiful yard when we would drive by.
At some point, or some funeral, someone mentioned that we lived half a block away. I told Bob how much I loved his garden, and he told me to feel free to walk over and talk gardens.
Bob, in my memory, was a more serious character than Bubs. But his invitation was welcome to me because it provided a destination with the kids and because, as I said, I always admired their yard.
At some point I began to make little walks over there. The memory is dim (I’ve had a few babies since then and it’s true what they say about “baby brain”) so I can’t say if I went weekly, or monthly, or only a few times total, but every fall I think of Bob and how he welcomed me and my boys for little visits.
I wanted to garden but was clueless. We had the tiniest postage stamp yard, but I was filling it with impatiens, and other easy growers. I pulled bricks out of the patio and planted a few herbs in the sandy soil.
Bob seemed happy to encourage me and to answer my questions while the boys ran in circles around the trees in his backyard. One afternoon, I admired his California poppies. He simply went over and plucked a flower top that had gone to seed and sent me home with something new to hope for.
I think the reason I specifically think of him in the fall is because it is applesauce season. When we have a lot of apples on the tree, or if I get a good deal on a 20-lb box, the work begins in saucing and canning. When I told him about all of the apples I needed to can and how long it was taking, he simply and brusquely told me that I was wasting my time with the peeling and coring and cutting. “Just put the apples in whole and add a little water. Put the lid on and leave it for awhile. Then use this …” And he went to the cupboard and pulled out an old aluminum pyramid sieve and wooden pestle, and told me to keep it. I love its oldness and sturdiness, its usefulness, and that it is from him. I use it every year, and every time I throw whole apples into a pot with a lid and a little bit of water, I thank Bob for the work he saved me.
I’m sharing this memory because, probably without knowing it, Bob gave me something precious. He gave me his time and shared with me what he had to give. He made me welcome.
Hospitality is an important but maybe unrecognized virtue. To be open to someone, to welcome them into our private space, into our world, and to share something with them, can be life changing.
I know of so many people who honestly have no one. They don’t have family, or a community. How will they come to know Christ if they do not feel welcomed into our homes, to be a part of our “busy schedule”? How will they know that they are worthy of love if we do not love them?
I have a friend who has simply opened her door to an acquaintance that sought her out. She made time for an easy cup of coffee and a conversation. The friendship and trust grew. It wasn’t right away, it took time and openness, but the woman has now asked to join the family for Mass.
Bringing someone to Christ will often take apologetics and deep theology. But it will always take time and the effort of making someone welcome and sharing what we have with them. If we have Christ, we must share him.