BECAUSE THIS MONTH IS ALL ABOUT INVITATION, here is another post from Kindred Magazine written by a friend of mine, Lauren Goldbloom, who participated in Leadership in the New Parish, and is seeking to live into God's dream for her neighborhood in Spokane, Washington. 
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I WAS SITTING in a holy place. Metal chairs, a few tables, some windows. From a mounted television screen pictures from a wrestling match flashed, and the vending machines in the corner made their constant hum. But here in this understated room I looked at my brown leather sandals and half wondered about taking them off, knowing full well I was near holy ground. Underneath all this ordinary was a glorious expectancy, and I could hardly contain my eager joy.
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I’d seen the text not an hour earlier. “Water broke. She is on her way!” I practically danced through a quick shower, leapt around the house announcing the news, and skipped to the car, camera bag in hand. When I explained to the woman at the front desk why I was there, I couldn’t quite understand why she didn’t jump out of her seat to celebrate with me; the miracle of it all was certainly not lost on me, even if she was quite accustomed to women giving birth just down the hall from where she was seated.

Sitting in my chair in the waiting room I couldn’t quite form prayers into words, but my mind and heart were nevertheless filled with an inexplicable assurance—life was birthing new life, a miracle was taking place. And I was struck with the honor of that invitation—to wait, to be near, and to hope and wonder with her.

You and I may receive a handful of truly remarkable invitations in our lifetime, a request from a loved one or kindred spirit into one of those thin places that is significant in their story and therefore in our own. And with each remarkable invitation, I wonder how many everyday, nonchalant invitations might precede it? Hey, want to have lunch? Want to grab a cup of coffee? Want to meet at the park? Want to talk more about that dream of yours? In the ordinary—around the table, along the walking trail, over the glass of wine—we find the connection that will lead us into the sacred.

I can’t even remember the first time I invited Tiffany over for dinner, or perhaps we met at the park to let the kids play. A mutual friend had invited her to the women’s retreat where we’d first met, then I’d invited to her apply for an open position at the school where I was teaching, and the rest was history. We were soon living in the same neighborhood, working at the same school, and worshipping at the same church. One invitation turned into a dozen invitations, which turned into invitational living. There’s a kind of freedom in a friendship when you’ve extended and accepted enough invitations that you already know you’re welcome, they already know they belong.  

That kind of community, though, only happens with other kinds of invitations. Want to watch my kids for me so I can get a break? Want to stay with me after the party and help me do dishes? Want to sit with me and listen just so I can put my feelings into words? And all the while we’re asking unspoken questions. Will you do life with me even when it’s crazy and messy and my kids are cranky? Will you hold my story and trust my heart and give me grace even when I’m falling apart? Will you see me? Will you be there? And through the inviting and the responding, the giving and the receiving, in the back and forth we create something beautiful—friendship that can hold space and grace for each other, belonging that feels like family.

The next text came from her husband and was straight to the point: “She’s here! Please come in!” Before I knew it I was at Tiffany’s side, a fresh miracle lying on her chest.  Dark new eyes were staring up at my friend, seeking out the face that went with that voice she already knew, and her skin keeping warm on the body that had held her for 37 weeks. I took out my camera and asked the moment to just stay still, my breath catching and then releasing in smiles and tears.

The honor of the invitation that day makes me wonder if all invitations aren’t a little like being invited to a birthing room. We’re asked to enter into another person’s story—their beautiful, messy, hard, glorious life. Whether it’s a Tuesday or a birthday or a doctor’s visit day—when we’re invited in, may the wonder and honor of that invitation never be lost on us. Who knows what miracles we just might witness?

LAUREN GOLDBLOOM makes a life as a mother of six, wife of one, and neighbor to many. She practices the art of neighboring around her big dining room table, where there’s always room for more friends and more stories.

Today I want to share a recent post I contributed as a guest blogger at Kindred Magazine. This is a wonderful magazine of gifted writers, and I hope you will check out their musings.

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HOSPITALITY. I FEEL it may be a lost art. In the busy chaos of life, frenetic schedules, and individual pursuits, is there truly any space for opening our homes and our lives? Too few meals are shared with beauty, feasting, and wine over meaningful conversation that lingers on well into the night. But this makes sense. After cramming like a maniac to meet the deadline at work, surviving the two-year-old’s birthday party, running a load of laundry with what appears to be all the underwear one owns, somehow remembering to pay the AT&T bill that is five days overdue, and finally picking up a roasted chicken and bagged salad before collapsing in front of the latest episode of The Bachelor—is there really anything left?

And what about community and the sense that we are a part of something far bigger than ourselves? Sometimes I fear we have lost this as well. In the midst of a culture built on fierce individualism and personal freedom that trumps the common good. In the relentless barrage of technology and information that surely is a poor substitute for true friendship and connection. In the fragmentation of life where we often travel in isolation cages with wheels from garage to work and then back to garage again.

I find myself longing for the good old days. A place in time where everybody knows your name, where the pace of life slows, where conversations over meals are savored, and where there is dancing, storytelling, feasting, and laughter. Where communities gather regularly to share in worship, commerce, socials, barn raisings, and harvesting. Of course, I’ve never lived in such a time. My limited knowledge comes merely from the books I devoured as a freckle-faced, red-haired kid. Along with the delectable indulgence of watching my weekly allowance of television, which was either the more scandalous The Waltons or the more genteel Little House on the Prairie. My own history only goes as far back as the ’70s, but I guess I can thank my Jesus-crazed hippie parents and those formative years in the commune for my freakishly abnormal value for community. In fact, I don’t know how to do life any other way.

Going against the status quo might come from the hippie parents as well. For it bothers me that life today is organized around the economics of capitalism. At the expense of our own well-being, our children, our communities, not to mention those whose backs our “happiness” has been built upon. Don’t get me started. Just. Don’t get me started. From our food sources to our housing, healthcare, prisons, and education systems. It’s not that we are without the intellect, resources, or creativity to fix them. It is just that it simply costs too much.

But I fear my rant is dismal and bordering on the catastrophic when I consider myself to be an optimist. But this I do believe with all my heart. With all my hippie-loving-communal heart. In these uncertain times when we can’t help but feel disillusioned and demoralized with the constant onslaught of politics, injustice, war, and violence, there is one thing we can do.

One amazing, defiant, subversive thing.

Practice hospitality.

If you are looking to “stick it to the man” (and most likely you are in our current climate), get to know your neighbors. Yes, your actual neighbors. And no, I am not kidding. Even the neighbor in the sketchy house with the overgrown yard. Go over and introduce yourself. You might find out a thing or two, not the least of which that your elderly neighbor’s been ill and shut in. Get to know your neighbors—the master gardener next door, the plumber who insists on parking his truck in front of your house, and the single mom across the street. This simple act has the power to transform your community.

If you are hoping to make a difference in the midst of rampant racism, bigotry, and wall-building, welcome others different from you into your home. Share a meal and hear their stories. You just might find out that these new friends are the most courageous and resilient people you know. Invite the stranger. Welcome the outsider. It’s the most subversive act you can do.
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If you are longing for meaning and connection, invite others to your table. Eat together. Share wine or a book or a cup of coffee. Feast together. Share a meal, share your presence, and share your life. Yes, this will require slowing down, saying no to some good things, letting go of perfection, and being vulnerable. But it’s worth it. Being present to others invites the best of what it means to be human. So go on and be subversive. Invite. Feast. Tell stories. Listen. Connect. Learn. Laugh. Empower. Transform.
Practice hospitality.

by Jessica Ketola

INVITE. It seems like the word of the month. I love words and this one in particular, because invitation is so…well…inviting (I didn’t say I was articulate.) This summer, you have been invited to do one thing. One glorious, defiant, subversive thing. To practice hospitality. And if you still haven’t sent the invite or planned the barbecue you wanted to or set aside time for that outing, you have 30 beautiful days to do so. Now’s the time.
 
But along with the invitation to practice hospitality, I hope you will accept the INVITATION TO PRACTICE SABBATH.
 
You see, every August we take time for rest, relationships and rejuvenation. And we practice Sabbath as a community. Which may or may not conjure up restrictive traditions of forced quiet, prayer and religious activities. However, this is not the kind of Sabbath I am talking about nor the kind of Sabbath that I believe God has commanded. [And by the way it is a command.]
 
Sabbath in its ancient tradition was meant to be a day of delight for both body and soul. A beautiful gift of rest and rejuvenation. A day when we cease from our own work to receive the bountiful gift of God’s work. A day when we celebrate God’s re-creative, redemptive love that Dan Allender refers to in his book Sabbath using the categories of sensual glory and beauty, ritual, communal feasting, and playfulness. Yes, you heard it right. Rest. Rejuvenation. Beauty. Feasting. Community. Play. Delight. This is what is required. [Okay. Sign me up!] This is the gift of Sabbath to be practiced in our everyday lives where we actually make space to attend to the things that bring goodness, glory, and delight. And where we carve out time to experience heaven here on earth. To celebrate God’s goodness in our lives. To enjoy for just a few moments God’s shalom. To slow down long enough to be fully present. To God. To ourselves. To our desires and our longings. And to the people we love.  
 
So you are INVITED this month to practice Sabbath delight and radical hospitality which are just two sides of the very same coin. One is to enter and receive the confounding abundance and extravagance of the kingdom. And the other is to invite others to experience it too. So what is your heart longing for? What gives you life? What feeds your soul? What beauty stirs you? What hike, concert, outing, feast, hot tub, or fire pit do you need to experience to fill your heart with pure delight? For you are INVITED to participate in something compelling, beautiful, and life-giving—in other words, to experience heaven here on earth and to taste of the coming kingdom.
 
 by Jessica Ketola