I've found that doing simple hospitality and asking simple questions can help others feel included.
When the last Zumba song ended, I turned to Brenda and said, "Would you like to come over this Wednesday night? I'm having some friends over—just women, we chat, eat dessert, imbibe a bit—it's fun. Want to come?" Brenda's smile reached up to her big green eyes. "That sounds so nice. I feel special. Thanks for including me."
A little surprised–I didn't know a simple invitation would make her feel special. We hadn't talked much but I knew she also had three daughters and was in the throes of a divorce.
"Okay, good—here's my address. We start around 7. See you then." I liked Brenda. I didn't know her, but I was glad she wanted to come.
About 20 minutes into the evening the following week, she arrived with some exotic cheese and crackers. She quickly placed them in the kitchen, and joined the rest of us all seated in the front room—some with wine, other with sparkling water. Ready to share and learn, those who had come before knew they were in for a treat. The group consisted of both young and old, me being the oldest—more common than not these days—and most of the women didn't know one another but didn't seem to mind.
Sidenote: I never intended to host wine nights.
Here's how they got started. A young friend needed someone to talk her through a broken heart. I got to be that someone. She brought wine. I poured, she cried. I assured her she had dodged a bullet, and word got out. "Sue hosts Wine Nights." I smile to think of it now. Never on a regular night or month, I began inviting women I knew or who I wanted to know. Sometimes five came, sometimes fifteen. I often offered two nights from which to choose so the circle could remain small. Fewer women meant more space and time to share words, and share they did. We laughed and cried and gave voice to our heart-thoughts. God was mentioned but he wasn't on any guest list they could see. He just showed up. Every time.
By the time Brenda joined us, I had been hosting girls-night-out for a couple years. I invited people I'd known forever but never had over. I asked the new neighbor and she invited another new neighbor and we all met at the front door for the first time. New moms and grandmas, gym friends, like Brenda or a random server I connected with over pizza. Career women and Bible study teachers. Churched and non-churched. I never knew who might show up.
GOD IS IN THE DETAILS
On occasion I worried I invited too many.
I texted my pastor: Is it possible to over-invite? I have 24 confirmed tonight!
Wow, was all he said. Not helpful.
Seven canceled at the last minute. God is in the details and in the number of chairs.
This is what I learned: Women may walk in the door, timid and unsure, but leave feeling loved because they took a risk and came anyway. God brings those who need connection—with one another, with themselves, with him. Some strangers become acquaintances. Some acquaintances become friends.
Women know instinctively we need one another, and most realize the courage it takes to know and be known is worth the stepping out and joining in.
We invite. That's also a risk. My God, the King of details and my life and yours, brings those who need connection—with one another, with themselves, with him. We don't know who they are but He does. So we take a chance and invite.
I begin by asking each to introduce themselves and then answer two questions. Although I've written a book on conversation starters, I forget that I have and just pray, "Lord, what questions will open their minds and hearts, to let them know You love and care for them?"
I use simple questions—we don't meet to solve the world's problems. We just liked being together. The first question is designed to take the newness off the evening; followed by a second that takes more thought, makes us delved a little deeper, pause and reflect. After everyone shares, I observe one woman rising from her chair to talk with another; some stay on and clean up, finding commonalities, a kindred spirit in the making, and stay until late. It's always, always worth the time and effort and uncertainty.
QUESTIONS FOR THE WIN
The night Brenda came for the first time, I asked everyone: "When you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?" We chuckled as we thought back to that time of dreams and aspirations from a magical time, mostly not realized and hugely unrealistic. "I wanted to be a speed skater in the Olympics – but of course, there wasn't a skating rink in our town!" "I wanted to start an orphanage, but then I realized I didn't really enjoy small children—my own excepted!" We laughed. We commiserated. And some found their people, or at least the beginning of friendship. We felt included.
The second question—"Who are you becoming now?—gave rise to hmm's and ahh's, barely audible as these women, mostly strangers, considered and shared out loud—more for their own sake than the hearers. We understood the gravity of the question, the underlying assumptions of these strong truths: we are in process, we have much more to offer and further to grow; and for some, we have pain to get beyond, and grief to leave behind. Two women gave a similar response—one, a work colleague, and the other was Brenda: "I don't know who I'm becoming. I was married and now I am not. I want to spend this year figuring it out."
With questions and answers complete, no judgments or advice expressed—that's not why we gathered—Brenda came up to me while I went to the kitchen to find more crackers and more of her great cheese. "Sue," she said quietly, "that was really good."
I replied equally quietly, "I find that women are lonely."
"I'm lonely. Thank you for including me." There was that word again. Including. Why was it so meaningful? Aren't we beyond the playground angst of not getting picked for the team? Haven't we put paid to our feelings of being left out and any insecurity from not being from the right part of town, going to the right schools, wearing the right clothes? I knew that pain. I was a redhead when red hair wasn't in. We lived in a ritzy area, but we weren't ritzy. We attended a small Baptist church in the next town, and I didn't know any Christians in my Junior High or High School. I felt alone, often, isolated from what was considered cool, accepted, admired. Normal, at the time; I wasn't the only one, but I felt like I was.
And even after all these years, perhaps we haven't moved beyond the angst of comparison and left-out-ness. We need to know more than ever that we matter, that we are loved for who we are, not what we do.
And that we are included.
And that's what God did. When we understand how God included us, we can better include one another. How do we know? For God so loved the world.
Will you take a risk this week and invite someone over? God is in the details of our hospitality, for heaven's sake.
PS
I'm actually giving away a copy of my digital version of Say Something Special: 202 Conversation Starters, The Ultimate Guide in Stimulating Conversation. Leave a comment below to be entered. and if you don't win, you can buy it HERE as well as the printed version or the Card Decks (limited in number, btw.)
