When baby Jesus was born, scripture says there was no room for him at the inn, that he came into the world and was placed in a manger. Some speculate he was born in a stable or barn where animals were kept. Others think it was more of a cave. Regardless, there was a place for him and I love that part of the story because it’s a practice my family has embraced for as long as I can remember. Making room for people with no place to go.
Rarely would a Christmas pass by where someone from outside our family wasn’t at our house for the celebration. The single guy from Trinidad from my father’s office, the widdowed neighbor women, our pastor and his wife who were far from family, our mailman and his wife, a family from Puerto Rico, and eventually my friend’s from college who couldn’t make it home for the holidays. My parents always made room and welcomed guests as family around our table; it was beautiful, restorative fellowship.