Hospitality-sans-house (but with bananas)

At this point I’ve said it so many times that defining it is worthwhile, if not necessary.

When we say that we’re starting a House of Hospitality in Wichita, the logical first question is, “So do y’all have a house?” Well, no. We are practicing what I like to summarize as “hospitality-sans-house.” 

It’s almost noon in downtown Wichita, and on most any given day of the week, at least three vehicles are parked in the lot at the intersection of Topeka and 3rd. April, our friend and a friend of the homeless for far longer, brings the snacks and assorted necessities (travel-size shampoo, wet wipes, sunscreen, cooling rags). Patrick brings the water, iced down (and despite the size of the cooler in the bed of the pickup, most of the water will probably be gone by the time we leave at 1:30). And I bring the bananas. Endless walking and long days in the sun are a recipe for cramping, especially without consistent access to drinking water, so people are almost always happy to take one (which makes more tolerable the unsolicited banana bomb that seems to have gone off in my car). 

But downtown is just one area. It’s central, close to the Lord’s Diner and the Open Door, but there are other places where people congregate. About a month ago, we started bringing water (and yes, those doggone bananas) to Lincoln Park later in the afternoons. Consistency has borne the fruit of building relationships, both at the park and downtown, and I have observed that folks frequent the same places for the same reason that I do: community. Unsurprisingly, conversation is often as appreciated as the water and food we offer. 

So most days we are exchanging greetings, conversing about the weather, or catching up with someone we’ve not seen in awhile, or have just seen the day before. Other days I might apply Neosporin and a Band-Aid to someone’s bare foot after they stepped on a piece of broken glass. Or Will might lend his phone for a call to a relative or a social worker. Every now and then Daniel and I get to pray with someone.

On Wednesday nights, the dining table of the house where I live becomes a PB & J factory as Thérèse and I crank out upwards of 100 sandwiches to be given out at the homeless encampments, where food is less accessible than downtown. 

And a rescued entertainment center now adorns the front porch of the house where Patrick lives, stocked with t-shirts, socks, blankets, and toiletries. An impressively quick paint job on a Tuesday morning rendered an invitation on its front door – based on Colossians 3:12 – to be clothed materially and mystically. Next to it sits a styrofoam cooler with bottled water, free for the taking.

I won’t romanticize the ordinary work that we are doing, or try to overemphasize its spiritual significance. It’s just that we happen to be recovering workaholics and would prefer not to let the lack of one resource (read: a house) prevent us from stewarding well the resources that we do have: time, energy, contributions from friends and neighbors, and a thrilling eagerness among our Catholic friends to be involved. 

This isn’t to say that we are not keen to add housing folks to the scope of our activities. Our primary prayer request remains that the Lord – through the intercession of Saint Teresa of Ávila, our patron Saint Oscar Romero, and faithful Saint Joseph – will lead us to the right place. But the sickle that cuts down our homeless brothers and sisters swings a wider circle than just housing, and we are offering the loaves and fish (and bananas) that we have to cover some of that ground, too.