The Red Stain

The call came at something like 11:30pm. She was upset and sounded a little desperate. My sleepy brain was trying to process all she was telling me . . .

A week or so earlier, she had moved from one of the local homeless shelters to live with a friend who had just recently gotten an apartment. The friend had offered for both her and her husband, who had been staying in the men’s housing at the same shelter, to come and stay with her and her girls. I had advised against it. I liked her friend, but I was so worried about what all might happen at that apartment. My friend and her husband were doing so well at the shelter . . . they were working towards getting their kids back out of foster care . . . things were looking good . . . this didn’t seem good . . . my mama bear was rising up, and I wished I could just put them in a bubble! She went anyway.

So now, at this late hour, I was receiving the call I had feared. People were there, people were using drugs, accusations were being tossed back and forth. The truth was as hard to see as the breeze that makes the waves toss to and fro. It was not on my agenda and certainly not convenient, but I felt I must go—and my husband agreed. This couple had been doing so well, working so hard for sobriety and for their little family. This could be the end of all of it. And so, off into the night I went, to pick them up and bring them to our house for the night. They would go back to the shelter in the morning.

It wasn’t until several days later that I got downstairs to wash the bedding and tidy up the room where they had stayed. It was not until then that I saw the red stain. On the carpet next to the guest bed, one of them must have spilled a Gatorade or something. It was right there for all to see, dried now, probably next to impossible to remove. I found my frustration just welling up inside me! Why were they drinking Gatorade in the middle of the night?! How did it get spilled?! Why didn’t they try to clean it up—or at least tell me?!?! Of course, it was impossible to remove at this point. The red stain is still there, for all to see. A reminder, of sorts, every time I see it. But a reminder of what . . .?

“Inconvenient” Hospitality

I found myself really thinking about that red stain. Indeed, my house bore several marks that were reminders of “inconvenient” hospitality. There were missing knick-knacks, broken during the temper tantrums of a hurting child venting frustration and buried pain, that had to be thrown away. The carvings on the dining room table. And the hole in the closet door of the guest room, where the door handle had punched through when it was slammed open in a fit of rage.

I found it interesting, that these material things were almost the hardest for me to deal with. It wasn’t the late hour calls, the tantrums themselves, the scathing words that were spoken in the fits of rage. It wasn’t even the boisterous, sometimes obnoxious, behavior of the children we brought into our home while their families worked to get things in order. It wasn’t the incessant chatter and a volume level that was decibels louder than usual for my normally quiet, empty-nester house. It was when my “stuff” got messy, or stained, or broken. Why did it frustrate me so much? Was my tidy house and my carpet and my “stuff” really more important than a couple’s sobriety and their family’s reunion? Or the safety and well-being of children from hard places? I don’t know exactly why that is the worst of it for me, but I have come to realize that if that is the worst of it . . . is it much of a sacrifice after all?

The Ultimate “Inconvenience”

As I said, I have found myself really thinking about that red stain. The irony of it isn’t lost on me . . . a red stain. I am reminded of the “inconvenient” sacrifice that Christ made, shedding his blood—for my sins! My “inconvenience” suddenly pales in comparison. Whenever I go into the guest room and see the unsightly stain, I am reminded that it is another red stain, Christ’s spilt blood, that has washed me clean! And now, because of it, the same power that raised Christ from the dead lives in me. It is that very same Spirit that has prompted us to open our home to “inconvenient” hospitality. Surely, I can offer the same grace and forgiveness—for a broken knick-knack or a spilled Gatorade! Indeed, may I grow in my love for others that I would not even notice or care about such trivial things. But rather, that I would see the broken hearts and the broken lives in need of Christ’s redeeming love. May I spend more time mending hearts, even if it means scrubbing a few carpets.

“And do not forget to do good and to

share with others, for with such

sacrifices God is pleased.”

Hebrews 13:6 NIV

“Offer hospitality to one another

without grumbling.”

1 Peter 4:9 NIV

“But if we walk in the light, as he is in

the light, we have fellowship with one

another, and the blood of Jesus, his

Son, purifies us from all sin.”

1 John 1:7 NIV