The Miracle of House Guests

This summer, my husband and I had an incredible amount of company—a constant stream of weekend house guests, one couple who stayed a week, assorted day visitors, often eight or ten at our dinner table. The constant stream of guests got me thinking about Abraham and Sarah.

Judaism’s First Couple set the standard for hospitality by enthusiastically welcoming three strangers, angels disguised as desert wanderers, and giving them a foot bath, a feast, water and a cool place to rest. (Genesis 18) When fully refreshed, one of the strangers revealed that, despite Sarah’s advanced age, within a year she would bear a son. Among the many meanings to be gleaned from this story is the suggestion that those who perform the mitzvah of welcoming guests (in Hebrew, hachnaset orchim) may be rewarded with a miracle.

In the past, I’ve always tried to be a warm and generous host, though I confess that at times, a resentment born of exhaustion undermined the authenticity of my welcome. Preparing the house for guests, accommodating to their timetables and idiosyncrasies, the invasion of privacy, the endless cooking and clean-up (even with my husband expending equal labor) often made me regret having extended the invitation.

This summer was different. I changed more sheets and turned out more meals in the past three months than I have in the past 10 years. Yet, rather than feel enervated or resentful, I felt energized by my efforts and genuinely gladdened by the arrival of each round of visitors. As my husband and I produced the modern equivalent of Abraham’s and Sarah’s welcome (minus the foot bath)—albeit not for strangers but for friends and acquaintances—my enthusiasm never flagged. What happened?

First, a new house. We bought a place in the country. Second, a big birthday: I turned 70 in June. Both facts, I’m sure, contributed to my changed attitude. Rather than let the landmark of three score and ten signal that I’m over the hill, my commitment to a fresh start in a new place made me feel young, vibrant and engaged. I took time to furnish the house, explore the area, nurture my relationships with the local postmistress, wine merchant and hardware store staff. I joined a book group. I made new friends. I felt refreshed and renewed.

At the same time, it was important to me to connect our old friends with this new chapter in our lives. “Come on up for the weekend” was my way of including them in our excitement, introducing them to our new venue and interweaving old pals and new acquaintances in a seamless fabric of friendship.

As Bert and I immersed ourselves in the host role, I felt my focus shift from obsessing over the work of entertaining to savoring the pleasure of our friends’ company. I found joy in creating a convivial atmosphere, producing meals and planning activities to make them happy. I noticed that conversation is more relaxed and revealing when it’s open-ended and people don’t have to rush home after dessert.

During these leisurely summer weekends, what struck me again and again was the meaningfulness of most of my friends’ lives, the details of which they communicated incrementally, unself-consciously, and with more depth than a brief get-together might allow. Or maybe, at 70, I was listening differently.

As in many friendship circles, much of the talk in our house this past summer was about health care, Afghanistan, Wall Street bonuses and Bernie Madoff—as well as books, movies, children and grandchildren.

But it was the revelation of my friends’ personal passions that stays with me. One of them started a synagogue from scratch. Another organizes weekly pickups from buildings whose residents are willing to donate food but can’t take the time to shlep it to the homeless shelter. A lawyer (who’s Jewish) did pro bono legal work for Debbie Almontaser, the beleaguered Arab-American high school principal who was the target of a smear campaign by right-wing Jews. One friend reported on his recent peace mission to the Middle East. Another is devoted to making science understandable to lay people. One woman has enlisted scholars of the three major faiths to write a joint haggadah. Another works with deaf children. Still another is trying to get the U.S. Congress to ratify the U.N. Convention to Eradicate Discrimination Against Women without sacrificing reproductive rights. Those are just a few of the folks who, through their jobs, volunteer efforts or philanthropy are actively working for social change.

The reward Abraham and Sarah earned for their hospitality was the gift of a son—in other words, a future. However chutzpahdik the analogy, the hospitality my husband and I extended to our house guests has, for me at least, yielded a small but comparable miracle—the sense that at 70, I have a future. That I’m still capable of change and new beginnings, and that the world I live in has a future because of the passion and dedication of friends like those we welcomed into our home this summer.

Letty Cottin Pogrebin has just completed her tenth book, The Man in the Playground, her second novel.