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We were so different when we met. He, a Southern gentleman, soft-spoken but of iron-clad opinion; me, an uppity Canadian with a tendency to speak my mind. A restaurateur who had opened more than forty eating establishments, his experience dwarfed my meager culinary skills, yet he experimented eagerly with the recipes that meant something to me. I circled so far on the periphery of his normal orbit that paying attention to me required special and specific effort. There was no reason for him to love me, no reason for him to accept another soul into his already full schedule and heart. 

But love me, he did. 

I was in my early thirties when I met Lynon Owens; he was 86. His father died when he was fifteen; he worked three jobs to support his mother and put himself through university, even milking two cows and selling the milk door to door. He had trained fighter pilots in the Second World War, surviving two mid-flight crashes by ejecting at just the right moment. Following the war, he married the love of his life, Polly. They had a son, Ron, and a full life together before she was diagnosed with early onset Parkinson’s. For fifteen years, he was her sole caretaker. Twenty-seven years after her death, the men around Lynon spoke about how his love for her continued to inspire them to love their wives more fully. 

When my husband, Bryan, and I married in 2008, Lynon became my grandfather, too. Well, sort of. Bryan is the adopted son of Lynon’s son, Ron. Not only was I an in-law, but I was an adopted one, at that. 

I write those words, but Lynon would respond indignantly at reading them, I’m sure. To him, I was his granddaughter, full stop, no qualifications. Despite our differences in age, culture, experience and even language (Northerners sound exceedingly strange to those from the South, as my (Conversations) colleagues can attest), I have no doubt that Lynon loved me like I was his own flesh and blood. As a stranger, I probably couldn’t have been more strange to him, yet he welcomed me, completely. He welcomed me, and I was transformed. 

Having lost both of my grandfathers decades before, my heart clung to Lynon is ways I don’t think I was consciously aware of. As a spiritual director, I spend a lot of time thinking and praying about how to welcome others well—the very practice of spiritual direction is often called holy hospitality. Sometimes, I’m arrogant enough to think that my study and experience means that I know a thing or two about receiving others well. Over and over, Lynon’s lived witness of love has humbled me and taught me more about welcoming the stranger in the short years that we knew each other than mere study ever could. 

When Lynon said he would pray for you, he did. Daily. Once, when my husband was visiting his grandfather in the assisted living facility that was his home, Bryan woke in the early hours to the sound of Lynon’s voice resonating through the thin walls. Lynon was on his knees beside his bed, praying the names of those he loved—Ron, Bryan, grandchildren, his great-grandchildren. And me. His simple dedication to lifting those he loved to the Father was the cornerstone of his life with God. Over the years, just knowing that Lynon was praying for me held me and sustained me when I was asked to offer hospitality to those things that I didn’t want to let through my door: a heart attack, a job loss, depression and instability. 

It was in being welcomed as the stranger myself, in being tended, prayed for, cared for that I experienced the kind of trans-forming love that made me able to welcome the strangers that I wasn’t expecting, wasn’t prepared for. And, in welcoming those strangers, I was further changed, even though I’m fairly certain I entertained those angels completely unawares. 

This is the way of the Kingdom of God. First, He welcomes us, the God of all creation bending down to lift us into His presence. Then, transformed in the deepest places of our hearts by the love so freely offered, we reach out to love and welcome those around us—regardless of race, religion, age, culture, class or stage. We love because He first loved us (1 John 4:19, NIVAll Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™). 

It is through Him and with Him and in Him that each of the writers of this issue welcome you into their own experiences of welcoming the stranger. In our Transformational Theology section, Jan Johnson invites you into an understanding of where our resistances to welcoming the stranger may come from, and where the journey of hospitality could take us. John Ortberg takes a look at way the Church is losing the hearts of the current generation, and why catechism might be the way to welcome them back—as Christians we have unique access to truly transformed lives. In Honesty About The Journey, my experience with my grandfather finds its echo in Jerrell Jobe’s PawPaw; a man whose profound love showed him—and us—an image of God that radically reverses the roles of guest and host. Then, Janice Peterson shares with us the truths of hospitality learned in a life of service with her husband and author of The Message, Eugene. 

Mark Labberton’s reflections on the power that our words have to confine or bring freedom to those around us kicks off our Life Together section, followed by Cindy Bunch’s article on what it was like to offer healing help to a member of her church—only to find herself healed. Intentionality of the Heart begins with author and spiritual director Janet Hagberg’s reflections on holy hospitality encountered in her own welcoming moments. Then introvert Adam S. McHugh offers hope for those of us who shudder at the idea of opening our doors to the stranger, meditating on the gifts that introverts bring to the practice of hospitality. Jan Johnson’s interview with Father Boyle of Homeboy Industries caps off this section with a window into what God’s welcoming love can do to transform communities ravaged by gangs and drugs. 

Finally, our Classical Spiritual Exercises section takes a look at how the habits of hospitality transform our relationships with God and one another. Rachael Crabb describes how life with an open door—both in her family of origin, and in her marriage and ministry with her husband, Larry—opens the soul to more of God’s goodness. And Wil Hernandez gives us a window into how a man known for living a life of holy hospitality, Henri Nouwen, thought about the transforming tensions of welcoming the stranger. 

Of course, you’ll find our regular features in this, the tenth anniversary issue of Conversations: Chad Allen’s and Margaret Campbell’s wonderful meditations on Rublev’s Icon of the Trinity in O Taste & See; Michael Glerup’s offering of the wisdom of our spiritual forebears in Ancient Christian Wisdom for a Postmodern Age; and, one of my favorites of this issue, Ruth Haley Barton’s contribution on spiritual community on the Emmaus road in a feature from The Transforming Center. Lastly, I’m always deeply grateful for Kim Engelmann’s gifted work in the Conversations Guide as she invites you, our reader, into dialogue with us and one another. If you’ve never used the guide in a small group or to start a conversation over coffee, this is the perfect issue to do so. I challenge you specifically to find someone you wouldn’t normally talk to about hospitality and ask them one of Kim’s questions. 

I had the unparalleled privilege of being a part of the Owens family as we celebrated the life and mourned the death of Lynon Owens just before Thanksgiving last year. After the service, a young boy of perhaps eight or nine years passed through the receiving line, tears streaming down his face. With great dignity, he explained that “Mr. Lynon” had made a habit over the past few years of finding him before church each Sunday, sitting down with him, and asking him how his week had gone. These few minutes of attention given, hospitality offered, told this young boy that he mattered, to God and to Lynon. It was a sentiment echoed by each heart that passed through the line that day. 

Even as our family continues to mourn the loss of this wonderful man, I’m deeply thankful that new life is still being brought forth. Shortly after this issue arrives on doorsteps, I will become Mémé to a new grandson, and aunt to a new niece or nephew. 

And just as the Owens family moves from death to life, so, too, does this issue. Keep some tissues handy as you read the Back Page reflections of our Managing Editor, Joannah Sadler, on welcoming her own stranger, the beautiful Mason Elizabeth. Given that she’s already been part of a few editorial meetings, I may make good on my threat to put her on the masthead for Issue 10.2. 

Finally, thank you, our readers, for being part of our Conversations family for the past ten years (for more on our planned celebrations, check out Join the Conversation). We’ve always saved a seat around that roaring fire for you, and you’ve responded in generosity by welcoming us into your homes, your lives, your journey with Jesus. As Senior Editor, I am humbled and transformed by your loyalty, grace and love. I’m looking forward to continue along this Emmaus road with you, talking together and discovering Jesus revealed in the very stranger beside us.