I’ve written before about how much easier it is for me to be a host rather than a guest. And while I’ve learned much by allowing myself to be someone’s guest, tonight I get to sing the praises of playing host to others.

We have a really good friend staying with us this weekend. It’s the first time we have had any overnight guests staying with us, and it has felt very satisfying to open up our house to her and her children. We didn’t do anything special to prepare–ok, we might have tidied up a bit and changed the bed sheets, but nothing fancy. I cooked an easy meal, then we went into town for ice cream and caramel apples, and then back to our house for some easy conversation.

Now everyone is off to bed (except me–in the kitchen, typing away), hopefully comfortable and hopefully feeling at home.

It’s supposed to be a cold morning tomorrow. We might even see our first frost. I have kindling ready in the fireplace for when I wake up.

I’ll probably be the first up, which is fine by me. I will get the fire going, start the coffee, and then scramble up some eggs.

That sounds too simple for such a formal sounding word like “host.”

And the more I think about it, the more it seems that whatever pleasure I get in hosting others comes from that very simple, yet very primal act of welcoming someone to share in something that is as much a place as it is an idea–home.

And I guess that also means before I can open my home to others, I first have to recognize the home that I have.