If you were to walk through the door of my childhood home, you’d be greeted by the sweet smell of Hazelnut Vanilla, my mother’s coffee of choice. You’d come up the stairs to music playing softly in the background. My mother would invite you to take a seat in living room, while she ran to back to the kitchen to finish fixing a plate of squares, cookies and other homemade desserts she kept in the freezer. It drove us crazy as kids. Whenever my mum made cookies, half would go straight into the freezer “just in case someone stops by”. My sister and I spent a lot of evenings as kids hiding in our rooms as our parents counselled, encouraged and played games with other couples.
When I entered highschool and sleepovers were now a regular part of our weekends, they were all held at our house. We’d wake up Saturday morning to the smell of turkey bacon and pancakes cooking upstairs. I realize now that this continuation of their tradition, wasn’t really about breakfast. My mum cared for my friends in their brokenness and my dad, looked out for them in ways their fathers didn’t.
Soon enough, I graduated highschool, grew up, and found myself opening my door on Saturday mornings. I soon would meet Ryan and get married and that seed of hospitality once sown in my life would take root in our marriage. The desert of 2020 almost snuffed it out, but then God led our lives to Texas. And that’s when we were introduced to
