monday milk & honey: first impressions as first blessings:
Open Doorway, Morocco (between 1879 and 1880)
The Poetry of Thresholds
"Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God."
- Romans 15:7
In the liminal space between outside and within, between stranger and friend, between ordinary Tuesday and holy encounter, something sacred stirs. The threshold—that humble strip of wood or stone beneath our feet—holds more power than we dare imagine.
Picture Abraham in the shimmering heat of the desert afternoon, the fabric of his tent rippling in the warm wind. Dust motes dance in the golden light as three figures appear on the horizon like a mirage becoming flesh. But Abraham knows better than to dismiss divine possibilities disguised as everyday moments. He runs—this elderly patriarch runs—toward what looks ordinary but carries the extraordinary.
The Altar of First Hellos
There's an art to threshold moments that we've largely forgotten in our age of ring doorbells and hurried hellos. Abraham understood what we're relearning: that the space between "Who's there?" and "Come in" is sacred ground where hospitality is born and angels might linger.
His tent entrance became a stage for grace—not because he decorated it with seasonal wreaths or ambient lighting (though there's beauty in such things), but because his heart was already prepared for the holy interruption of welcome.
Every doorway tells a story before a word is spoken. Is it a story of abundance or scarcity? Of warmth or wariness? Of a life that expects goodness or braces for disappointment? Our thresholds are sermons preached in morning light and evening shadows, in the language of texture and scent and the subtle invitation of beauty.
Curating the First Chapter
When we tend our entrances with intention, we're not merely decorating—we're composing the opening notes of every encounter. Consider the poetry of small gestures:
Fresh blooms spilling from vintage vessels whisper that beauty is worth tending, that life is celebrated here. They needn't be hothouse perfect—wildflowers gathered on morning walks, herbs snipped from kitchen gardens, branches heavy with seasonal promise all carry their own grace.
Light that pools warmly in corners and dances across surfaces creates the visual equivalent of a grandmother's embrace. Edison bulb string lights catch evening conversations on their copper wire. Lanterns filled with battery-powered candles offer welcome that doesn't depend on weather or season. A porch light left burning speaks of homes that expect goodness, even after dark.
Objects that carry memory and meaning—the milk jug from great-grandmother's dairy, the driftwood cross found on anniversary beaches, the hand-lettered sign that speaks your family's values—these are breadcrumbs leading to the deeper story of who lives here.
Pathways cleared and swept, seasonal touches that honor the calendar's turning show respect for those who have chosen to trust you enough to approach. When we prepare our entrance, we prepare our souls for the interruption of community.
But beyond the curation lies the deeper work: preparing our hearts to see every approach as potential epiphany. Some families keep stones by their door—smooth river rocks that remind them to welcome each guest as holy ground. Others display verses or quotes that set the spiritual temperature before anyone crosses from outside to within.
When Strangers Become Story
Abraham's threshold encounter birthed nations. Three dusty travelers became messengers of promise, carriers of the impossible-made-possible. His tent flap, held open in generous welcome, became the doorway through which Sarah's laughter would finally ring true.
We welcome not because we know who stands waiting, but because we know who we are—beloved, received, embraced by the One who knew our names before we drew breath. Our threshold grace flows not from our goodness but from the goodness we've received.
Every doorbell carries the potential for transformation. Behind each knock lives a full human story—the mother juggling grocery bags and homework anxiety, the neighbor carrying news both bitter and sweet, the friend whose smile masks soul-deep weariness. Our entrance can be the first place they exhale that day, the first space that speaks beauty over chaos, rest over rushing.
The Pause
There's something almost liturgical about threshold moments when we slow down enough to notice. The pause between seeing and welcoming. The breath between recognizing and receiving. The holy beat of silence before "Come in, come in."
In that pause lives all of hospitality's potential—the chance to offer first blessings instead of first judgments, to speak welcome before we know if we'll receive it in return, to practice the radical faith that every approach might carry grace we cannot yet see.
This week…
linger at your own threshold. Feel the poetry of that in-between space where inside meets outside, where your story greets the world. Ask yourself: what sermon does this space preach? What first blessing does it offer? Your entrance is more than architecture—it's the opening verse of every encounter, the first line of hospitality's song.
A Prayer for Threshold Keepers
God of open doors and generous welcome, tune our hearts to the sacred potential of every approach. Give us Abraham's quick feet and Sarah's preparing hands. Transform our thresholds into altars, our doorways into sanctuaries. May all who draw near find beauty before burden, rest before request, welcome before worthiness. And in our welcoming, may we discover again and again that You are present in the stranger, the friend, the unexpected guest who carries Your image across our humble thresholds. Make us worthy keepers of these sacred spaces where ordinary becomes holy, where stranger becomes friend, where divine appointments masquerade as Tuesday afternoons.
Amen.
