The gift that traveled twice

Not long before my most recent trip to Morocco, I unexpectedly made a new friend.

She loves to travel, although she isn't able to travel much anymore, and she's been enjoying hearing my stories about Morocco.

So, while I was in Morocco, I brought home a bag of Royal Tea for her.

There was only one small problem.

I found out after I gave it to her that she usually prefers coffee.

Oh well. It was the thought that counted.

Or so I thought.

Yesterday, while I was working, my phone announced that I had a message from her.

Instead of her usual text, she'd sent a voice message.

She wanted to tell me about the tea.

It was, she said, by far the best tea she'd ever had. She didn't even need to add sweetener because it was perfect just as it was.

I smiled.

But then she mentioned something else almost in passing.

She hasn't been feeling well lately. She wasn't suggesting that the tea had somehow made her better, and she wasn't even sure the two things were connected.

She simply noticed that after drinking it, she felt a little better.

That made my day.

Not because I'd done anything remarkable.

I'd simply bought her a bag of tea.

I'd thought of someone while I was traveling and brought home something I hoped she might enjoy.

And months later, on an ordinary morning when neither of us was feeling particularly energetic, that little bag of tea became a small moment of pleasure for her—and, unexpectedly, for me too.

I've been thinking about that ever since.

When I hear the word hospitality, I tend to picture a home prepared for guests.

A meal.

A table.

Something warm from the oven.

Perhaps flowers, candles, music, good conversation.

And I love all those things.

But I'm beginning to wonder whether I've been thinking about hospitality too narrowly.

Maybe hospitality doesn't always require a house.

Maybe sometimes it simply means making room for another person in our attention.

I saw this and thought of you.

I remembered what you told me.

I brought this back for you.

I noticed.

I wanted to share this with you.

There is something quietly generous about allowing another person to occupy a little space in our thoughts—and then letting that attention become something tangible.

Sometimes it might be tea brought home from Morocco.

Sometimes it's a flower cut from the garden.

A book passed along because someone came to mind while we were reading it.

A text sent at exactly the moment someone needs to know they're remembered.

A chair pulled closer.

A cup poured.

A few extra minutes when we could have hurried away.

None of these things is particularly impressive.

Perhaps that's part of what I'm beginning to understand.

Hospitality doesn't have to be impressive.

It doesn't have to require a perfectly clean house, a beautifully set table, an elaborate meal, or even an invitation through the front door.

It can simply say:

There is room for you here.

Not necessarily in my house.

In my attention.

In my day.

In the small circle of things I am choosing to care about.

And perhaps that's why my friend's message meant so much to me.

The gift traveled twice.

First, from Morocco to her.

Then, unexpectedly, back to me.

A bag of tea became a moment of comfort. Her delight became mine. And something I'd done without thinking very much about it reminded me that small acts of care don't always end where we leave them.

Sometimes they keep traveling.

I'm glad I brought home the tea.

Even for a coffee drinker.