I am writing in the evening light; the river birds have begun the last of their singing, sweet whistles, and rapid staccatos that are their language. I imagine they are asking one another for the very same things we might ask for, a lasting grace that is more than just their flight.
Is old-fashioned hospitality still alive? We are not talking about the “hospitality trade,” which thrives on the corners of every highway crossing. We are talking about welcoming in strangers out of empathy and generosity, not out of the drive to make money.