Summary of Carry On, Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life - Book Summary (2016)

Part IV. HOLDING ON

Chapter 39. Hostressing

“True hospitality is welcoming the stranger on her own terms. This kind of hospitality can only be offered by those who’ve found the center of their lives in their own hearts.”

—Henri Nouwen

The thing about the bridges is that I feel more comfortable walking over them and entering other people’s lives than inviting them into mine. For example, I am terrified of allowing people into my house. Sometimes when I hear a knock on the door, I hide in my bathroom until the knocking stops.

Inviting others into my home—it’s such an intimate act. I mean, our home is where we live. It’s where we keep all of our Meltony messes and stains and smells and dust. And I’ve heard that 99 percent of dust is dead skin cells. Dead Melton skin cells? Please, come in and sit among our family’s dead skin cells. Seems odd. Showing outsiders our insides is a scary big deal to me. I’m better at opening up figuratively, through my writing. The real thing in the real world makes me twitch and sweat.

Last week my cousins stopped by unannounced, and while they went upstairs to see the kids’ rooms, I started my deep, cleansing breaths while frantically scrounging through the empty pantry. I grabbed a box of pasta and a bottle of vinegar. Then I dropped them and grabbed Craig by the shoulders instead. I looked deep into his eyes and said: “Oh my God! What do people eat??”

Because that’s the thing. I just don’t know. I don’t know what people eat.

And even if I did know what people eat, I wouldn’t know how to make those things. And even if I could make those things, I wouldn’t have the stuff needed to serve those things. Each time a guest rifles through my pantry (yikes! sweat!), she casually asks, “Hey G, where is your …” Fill in the blank. Trivet? Cheese cutter? Curry? And I have to say, “Whatever that thing you just said is, I don’t have it.”

Sister came over to cook dinner recently, which she does occasionally for the sake of the children, and she yelled from the kitchen, “Glennon, where are your PANS?” and I yelled back, “I don’t have one.” And after that shocked silence to which I’ve become well accustomed, she yelled back, “You don’t own A pan? How do you cook without a single pan?” And I said, “Yeah. I know, IT’S REALLY HARD.” And then she walked into the family room and stared at me in disbelief for a good two minutes. When she finally spoke, she said something about how she has MULTIPLE PANS FOR VARIOUS PURPOSES and how I COULD SIMPLY NOT NOT have a single pan in my home.

I took a deep breath and said, “Give me a break. So I don’t have a pan? So what? It’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. Every day I pray the serenity prayer, ‘Allow me to accept the things I cannot change,’ and then Iaccept the fact that I do not have a pan. Also, if we’re being honest here, I think you’re being a bit judgmental. Just because you’re a ‘multiple pan owner’ doesn’t mean that we all must join you in your life of excess. Sister, there are children starving in Africa, actually at my house too, and you’re walking around with your head in the clouds, judging the panless and gloating about your multiple pans.”

Sister took a deep breath, walked back to the kitchen, and called for pizza delivery.

So you see, any sort of hostessing that involves a pan is out of the question. Water is another challenge. I have noticed that when people come over, they tend to want water. All of my glasses still look dirty when I get them out of the dishwasher, and I’m afraid if I serve my guests water from a dirty glass, they’ll think that my family and I are dirty too. So I buy bottled water. But then I’m afraid that if I serve guests bottled water, they’ll think I’m environmentally irresponsible. It’s a risk either way, really. So I analyze each guest and try to predict which type of water will offend her less. Tree huggers get dirty glasses and fancy-pantses get bottles.

And wine. Dear Lord. Please don’t ask for wine. During my drinking days, I drank wine from the box, but it’s been suggested to me that serving boxed wine to guests when one is in one’s mid- to late thirties is tacky. But I never learned how to uncork a bottle. Who could afford corked bottles back in the day? Additionally, all my wine glasses have these Saturny rings around them. Often, these rings are accompanied by leftover lip gloss stains. Thanks for doing your job, dishwasher. What is it that you actually do around here, anyway? And the crumbs in the silverware drawer, the toilets my angels forgot to flush, the dog poop in the backyard that Craig missed. I just get sweaty about all of it. And so I allow my fear of embarrassment to stop me from hostessing anyone.

I tell myself it’s fine, it’s just not “my thing,” but I actually think that’s a weak excuse. Because there are things we should do, regardless of whether they are our favorite “things” or not, because they help us grow and rest and connect with other people. Like fresh air—people should get some each day whether they want to or not. It helps. And telling the truth. That’s hard, but people should do it anyway. Fresh air isn’t just for outdoorsy people, telling the truth isn’t just for honest people, and hospitality isn’t just for Martha Stewarty people. I think inviting people into your home, whether it’s an impeccable mansion or a rusty old shack, is probably an important practice. I think we’re supposed to take deep breaths, tell the truth, and keep our hearts, minds, and spaces open to others, whether these things are easy for us or not. Because hospitality is not about fancy table settings, just like writing isn’t about fancy words. They are both about letting people see you. Letting people in now, not waiting until things are perfect. So deep down, I think that humoring my hostess phobia is selfish, prideful, and lazy of me. And I’m afraid that I’m missing out on something awesome, since every spiritual practice eventually delivers a big blessing.

In the Bible, there is a story about the time Jesus and his twelve disciples came to visit the home of two sisters, Mary and Martha. Martha gets very busy and harried with all the preparations because, I mean, Jesus plus twelve??JESUS. Talk about hostress. Martha starts cooking and cleaning and trying to find all of her hostessy things and working herself into a frenzy. Then she notices that her younger sister, Mary, is just sitting there at Jesus’s feet. Mary’s not cooking, not cleaning, not hustling or bustling or serving anything to anybody. She’s just resting and listening and soaking in Jesus’s company. And Martha is still in the kitchen grabbing her hubby’s shoulders and yelling, “WHAT DO GODS AND DISCIPLES EAT?” And the thing is that she is so busy trying to make things perfect for Jesus that she is missing him. She is missing his visit entirely, and she is miserable. When she’s finally had enough, Martha says to Jesus, “JESUS CHRIST! Can you please tell my sister to HELP ME?? I’m all on my own here. And there are thirteen of you!” And Jesus says something awesome. He says, “Martha, you are worried about so many things. Mary has chosen the better part, and it won’t be taken from her.”

The better part of what? The better part of hospitality? Is it possible that true hospitality is not about perfect food or fancy furniture? Could the better part of hospitality be listening? If you can’t do both, could the better part be focusing on your guest instead of trying to impress or even feed him? Could the better place be the family room, at the foot of your guest, instead of tucked away in the kitchen? Maybe. Maybe hostessing is not really about the host, but the guest. Maybe it’s a sacred spiritual practice because every single person who crosses our doorsteps is a gift, is Jesus really. And each guest has something to teach us if we’re present enough to learn. Maybe hospitality is not about my home, or my food, or my lack of stuff. Maybe it’s just about soaking people in.

After letting this new idea soak in for a few days, I told Craig that I was going to take the plunge. I was going to throw a party for my best friends. Craig thought it was a great idea because we’d have lots of excuses to be unprepared since we’d just moved into our new house. Yes, I said, brilliant! We will do this our way. Not Martha Stewart’s way or biblical Martha’s way. Our way.

So I wrote up an e-mail invitation and sent it to all of my best friends:

Dearest Friends,

I have decided to face my hostressing issue by having you all over the week after we move in to our new home. Please note the following things.

Bring Food. I don’t have any. Bring a seat. We don’t have many. No fabrics other than flannel will be permitted to cross my door step. Pajamas, please—don’t be a show-off. Use the bathroom before you come, because I am all out of Windex. Whatever the thing is you like to drink, please bring that thing. Also bring something to drink that thing out of. I can’t deal with the glasses situation right now. Too many different types of glasses. It’s ridiculous, if you want my opinion. Also. At nine o’clock you will say, “We should go” and I will say, “No, please stay!” Don’t stay. GO. I’m really, really tired and I’m just trying to be polite because etiquette is extremely important to me.

LYLAS,

G

All of my best friends came to my unparty. They all came in their jammies, bearing snacks and drinks and smiles.

We ate their food and drank their drinks and somebody else opened the wine, thank God. And they all squeezed onto my one and only couch and I sat at their feet because I’m a floor sitter. All evening, I soaked them in. Looking up at all my friends laughing and comfortable, I realized, I can handle this. I don’t have to miss out on this anymore because they’re all the way in and they love me anyway, maybe even more than they did before. The whole evening felt so warm and wonderful, I didn’t even get mad when they stayed until 9:15.

And now, I am a hostess. Without the r.