What if I let the homeless in?

CatholicAnchor.org

My daughter Elizabeth has a home in a charming little town near Philadelphia. One drawback, however, are East Coast squirrels. As a former Alaskan, I know that those in the Last Frontier take pride in size, especially when it comes to conversing with Texans. If it comes down to it, Alaskans will even brag about the giant mosquitoes.

But believe me, the scrawny, skittish little Alaskan squirrels can’t hold a candle to the big, brazen, gnarly squirrels back East. Elizabeth came home one summer day to discover an avocado and a loaf of bread half eaten on the kitchen counter, and then discovered that a squirrel had eaten through her window screen, filled up on lunch, and then gnawed through a second window to get out.

I thought of Elizabeth’s adversaries in nature when I read Mary Oliver’s poem, “Making the House Ready for the Lord.” Oliver is a poet who combines her love for the natural world with a deep spirituality. As a Pulitzer Prize winner, she’s probably the best Christian poet writing in America today. And I find poetry can often be a great conduit to prayer.

I was reading her poem, about welcoming wild creatures into her home (metaphorically, I have to believe) on a frosty morning when the temperature in Omaha hovered around zero and the wind-chill was piercing — much colder than typical temperatures for Nebraska this time of year. The local newspaper used the temperatures to roll out a story on homeless shelters, and like cities everywhere, the shelters in Omaha are way over capacity.

“And under the eaves and through the walls the squirrels have gnawed their ragged entrances — but it is the season when they need shelter, so what shall I do?” writes the poet.

I began to imagine what it would be like if I allowed the homeless, the forlorn to sleep at my house when the temperatures become deadly. Saint Ignatius taught us to pray with our imagination, so I let my mind wander to making my house a haven for the overflow crowd. I imagined hauling up the mattresses from the basement that we use when the kids come home. Where would I put them? Would I let someone sleep on my new couch?

In the morning, would I make my fresh-ground coffee as strong as I like it, or would I weaken it a bit for my guests? After all, they’re not used to Starbucks anyway. Would I request they smoke outdoors, and resent sweeping up cigarette butts off the patio later?

Consequently, I felt such gratitude for homeless shelters — places like Brother Francis Shelter in Anchorage and Siena Francis in Omaha — that welcome the stranger on my behalf. But how easily I let them do the task of hospitality for me. I realized — no, I long knew — that I’m no Dorothy Day or Mother Teresa. Plain old hospitality isn’t my strongest suit, and extraordinary hospitality is way beyond me.

But maybe I could be a little more aware of those in need. Maybe I could remember to write a little bigger check to Sienna Francis. Maybe I could be a little more aware of those around me who struggle.

Oliver ends her poem — the raccoon limping into the kitchen — by reminding us of whom we are welcoming when we stretch our concept of hospitality: “And still I believe you will come, Lord: you will, when I speak to the fox, the sparrow … know that really I am speaking to you whenever I say, as I do all morning and afternoon: Come in, Come in.”

The writer is formerly from Anchorage. She now lives in Omaha, Neb.