We'll Leave The Lights On

It’s been a full week around here. The good kind of full. With so many old friends passing through, we’ve joked about putting up a sign: The Anamesa Inn – Where Love Finds A Home.
 
Sure, the usual rhythm of life gets a little interrupted when we have guests in town. But isn't that the point? To stop and enjoy the things and people you love. When I'm with people who’ve walked with me through the best and the worst, who’ve laughed loud and stayed close through sorrow, I don’t mind the disruption. I just make room.
 
There’s a kind of longing joy that tends to show up when someone I love walks back through the door. The kind that lifts my face into a smile and throws my arms wide  open in a way that says, “Welcome home.”
 
Tomorrow is Palm Sunday — and that, too, is a homecoming. Jesus enters Jerusalem—not like a celebrity on parade, but like a familiar friend returning to the old neighborhood. Everyone is excited to see him. They throw cloaks like welcome mats and wave palms like they’re waving someone out of the rain into their home. It’s here something holy stirs: a hope-filled homecoming in the space between past and promise.
 
That’s the kind of space we’re building here: a community that welcomes and wants everyone to feel at home. Where something warm is on the stove. And someone’s glad you showed up. A space where you hear, “Come on in. You’re just in time.”
 
We know what Jesus will endure. But we also know what he brings: healing, hope, and a love that outlasts even death. No matter where you are, Jesus invitation to bring your joy, your grief, your questions, your need to belong. That’s our invitation as well.  
 
Like those who lined the streets, we’re always ready to welcome you. The porch light is on. There is coffee (or tea) in the pot. And there’s always enough room here to unpack your bags and rest. There’s no need make reservations. You don’t rent or earn your place here. You just simply belong, simply because you are.