"An odd collection of various depressions"

"We continued driving with little change in the landscape till, out of nowhere, a mass of prison-like, concrete apartments appeared. We meandered through this odd collection of various depressions till we came to a large, clean white church. We were greeted by a sweet older woman named Mama Veta and ushered up a villainous staircase to a Sunday school room, where we changed into less-wrinkled clothing."

- travel journal

The hospitality of American Southerners is legendary ... among Americans. I have been greeted many times by generous hosts in the American South and I have given back some of that hospitality. But the thing about many hosts in the American South (stereotyping here, I know) is that the sacrifice we make to be hospitable is mostly mental. Sometimes we sacrifice our schedule to make way for incoming guests or maybe we'll even sacrifice a room in our house so a family will be comfortable in our home. But when do we ever really give to the point of discomfort? In Romania, we were hosted more royally than almost anything I've ever experienced here, by people who had so much less than the average Southern Family. It happened several times, this remarkable gift of hospitality, but one occasion in particular struck me as the epitome of what I mean:

There is a little town in Romania called Motru. Motru is little more than a big cluster of apartment buildings built by the communists some 50 years ago. It was strange, entering this same-city. Same building on every corner, same yellow benches out front, same sounds on every street, same people on every sidewalk. It was weird ... everything was literally identical to everything else: a socialistic community of colors. Yellow, grey, white. Even the church was big, square, plain.

But souls are colors. Did you know that? That white church, by the time it was filled with people, was as beautiful as a humming-thrumming rainbow. At the end of the service, we were packed back into the cars and carted off somewhere strange ...

... an auto-body paint shop.

A tan, blue-eyed man in an oil-stained shirt came out to greet our caravan. That shirt made me feel right at home; he looked like my dad. He spoke to Cristi and ushered us into the paint shop which, rather than being full of cars waiting to be worked on and smelling of gasoline, was spotlessly clean with that look about it that I know well: the look of having just been swept within an inch of its life. We came to the full interior of the shop and I literally almost teared up because in the main room of the place was a long long makeshift table set with several sets of china and real silverware, bottles of soda and bowls of bread. The amount of work that would go into washing up after us was a feat unto itself, the amount of work that had already gone into preparing a place for us, equally vast.

After a few moments, our new host led us into the back yard which was a sort of small farm. On one side, the extended family of this man (church members who had run home quickly to change) were barbecuing meat and other members socialized across the language barrier with us. Our host, the farmer, showed us his eighteen piglets with pride and discussed hen-manship with Pastor John. In a bit, we were called into the shop where we blessed and ate one of the best meals of the entire trip. Barbecued chicken breast, pork, and mici, golden mashed potatoes, cabbage salad, wonderful chicken soup and bread, with homemade eclairs and poppy-seed bread for dessert. This family stood and served us while we ate and the farmer spent his dinner hour chasing rogue kittens away from his guests with a determination and embarrassment that made me laugh. Cristi told us that this family lived in the little (perhaps 3-room) apartment above the shop where they had prepared all of this for a group of Americans they had never met and might never meet again. Later, we were taken to spend the night at an apartment belonging to some of the extended family members. The family had vacated it (whether just for our benefit or for a trip, we didn't understand) and were welcomed into this fully-furnished, comfortable home with beds prepared expressly for our use.

 Motru is in one of the poorest districts in Romania and this family put on a feast for us. As far as common sense goes, this family couldn't afford to feed us like this. As far as common sense goes, this family had no room to host us. As far as common sense goes, this family was lacking any common sense whatsoever. But you know what? Real hospitality doesn't stop at common sense. Real hospitality considers others better than yourself and gives and gives and gives out of hearts full of love.

I will always remember the kindly farmer and his family as some of the most generous people I have met. I will remember the lessons learned: that a cement-bound, Communist-birthed town can harbor some of the most genuine examples of a stranger's love ever shown. So dear people of Motru, thank you for your love and your hospitality, and the fact that you treated us like visiting royalty when you could easily have begged off on a laundry-list of excuses. You've challenged my idea of the lengths you can go to show love to a complete stranger. My house and my family can give so much more as you so graciously showed. Thank you, and I pray we'll meet again. <3