Late in the Ugandan afternoons, when (…most of) the homeschool supplies had been shelved and as dinner simmered, a friend of our househelp would come in the gate, leaning her hoe against the brick wall of our compound before she began her trek down the hill. I remember these afternoons rosily, perhaps because they made me feel welcomed in a small step toward the inner circle of Ugandan culture. We sat on the concrete steps, equalized in our bare feet and the heavy exhaustion from the day. We belly-laughed and sipped tea.

This form of hospitality felt different from the sweaty attempts at hospitality in my home country, shoving dishes in the dishwasher when company showed up, or shutting doors to hide kid-clutter.

But Africa taught me that people who visit our house may not remember whether they stepped on a rogue Lincoln Log. But they remember if I was truly, undistractedly present with them. They remember if I was interested in their lives. And whether they felt loved.

Hospitality—diametrically opposed to image-management or posturing—means loving well in the name of Jesus. To offer a cup of cold water in His name.

Ruth Haley Barton reflects in Life Together in Christ: Experiencing Transformation in Community, “Paying attention to these inner dynamics [of opening our homes] can tell us about ourselves. How comfortable am I with myself and my life as God has given it to me right now?”

Perhaps the power of a prepared, approachable place lies not in the Pinterest-curated souffle in the oven, but space for relationships.

Could reluctance to invite others in reflect how community itself has descended in my priorities? That busyness—my tasks—edge out the time or need to draw others into my oh-so-real family?

I’m grateful for a God who first offers my soul hospitality. The God, to be clear, who strolled in the Garden with Adam and Eve in their birthday suits. Aside from the obvious requirement my guests wear clothes: Does my hospitality say, “Come as you are”?