There were seasons in the kitchen when I wasn’t just serving food, I was serving something deeper, even if I didn’t have the words for it at the time.

A good friend of mine, one of the guys on the line, lost his mom. No warning, no long goodbye… just gone. If you’ve ever lost someone like that, you know it hits like a freight train with no brakes. You show up to work because you don’t know what else to do. You keep your hands busy because your heart’s too loud. That’s where he was…………… just trying to breathe.

Now, kitchens are funny places. They’re loud, hot, stressful, and more dysfunctional than a reality show family reunion; but they’re also sacred. Real talk happens there, between burns and broken prep lists. And this guy? He didn’t need a sermon or some motivational pep talk about “staying strong.” He needed connection. He needed a place to fall apart a little and not be judged for it.

So we started doing this thing. After the shift, when we sat down for lunch, we would just sit a little bit longer. Two tired cooks, sharing whatever was left in the walk-in or thrown together from scraps like culinary jazz. A couple of fresh baked cookies, we definitely didn’t need, but absolutely earned.

And we’d just eat. Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes we wouldn’t. Sometimes we’d make each other laugh so hard we forgot to finish the plate. But what mattered wasn’t the food, it was the table. It was the space. The holy, greasy, unfiltered space where grief could stretch its legs and healing could sneak in between bites.

He didn’t need advice. He didn’t need “thoughts and prayers” printed on a sympathy card. He needed presence. He needed someone to sit beside him in the valley and say, “I’m here, man. Let’s eat. Let’s talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need.”

That’s what real hospitality looks like. It’s not about five-star service or artisanal charcuterie boards. It’s about showing up with an open heart and an extra plate; honestly, the plate isn’t even that important as long as you are present for them.  It’s feeding someone’s spirit when their soul’s gone hollow. It’s about seeing the person behind the pain and saying, “Its ok, You’re safe here.”

And when I think about that, I can’t help but see Hannah in 1 Samuel 1. She walked into the temple heartbroken, no kids, no answers, just raw, aching sorrow. And sure, she got misunderstood at first (like my guy probably did too. Grief can make us look sideways to people who aren’t paying attention). But once Eli figured it out, he didn’t preach at her. He didn’t correct her prayer posture. He just gave her a word of peace and a place to be seen.

That little moment of spiritual hospitality changed everything.

And what came out of that moment? Samuel. A prophet. A leader. A blessing not just for Hannah, but for an entire nation; all because someone created room, not just for her but for her spirit. That’s 360° hospitality. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual. The whole person.

And it matters now more than ever. In our homes. In our churches. In our kitchens. People don’t just need a casserole, they need a connection. They need someone who sees the storm behind their smile and pulls up a chair anyway.

So, Church, what kind of table are we setting?

Are we so busy feeding mouths that we’re forgetting to feed hearts? Are we quick to serve meals but slow to offer our presence? Are we creating spaces for the grieving, the anxious, the barely-holding-it-together crowd who need more than just a welcome sign?

Let’s be real: most people don’t remember the entrée. But they’ll remember the way you looked them in the eye and listened. They’ll remember the warmth, the peace, the unexpected comfort in a bowl of soup and a safe place to cry.

That’s what my friend needed. And I thank God the kitchen gave us that space.

You don’t have to have the answers. You don’t need a seminary degree or a fancy tablecloth. Just show up. Open the fridge. Make something. Be still with someone.

Sometimes the holiest ministry doesn’t come with a microphone, it comes with a stool, and an invitation to be seen. Because healing? It doesn’t always happen in a sanctuary. Sometimes it starts in the kitchen, a living room or standing in a driveway. And sometimes, the table is the miracle.

Hospitality isn’t just about casseroles and clean guest towels. It’s not just opening your home, but opening your heart. It’s about seeing someone’s soul slumped over, wrung out and bone-weary, and saying, “Hey, you can rest here. You’re safe.”

In the first chapter of 1 Samuel, we meet Hannah who isn’t just hungry for food, she’s starving for hope. And through her story, we get a front-row seat to the kind of hospitality that doesn’t stop at the front door but reaches all the way into the spirit. The curtain rises on a family road trip to Shiloh. Elkanah, his two wives (yes, it was complicated), and a donkey or two, all trudging up to worship and sacrifice. And here’s where the drama begins.

Picture this; Hannah, wife #1, is barren. Can’t have kids. Meanwhile, Peninnah, wife #2, is popping out children like she’s hosting a baby shower every year. And she loves to rub it in. “Oh Hannah, you’re not eating? Must be hard not having any little blessings crawling around, huh?”

Imagine the emotional exhaustion. Every year she goes to worship, and every year she feels further from the God she’s trying to draw near to. This is where hospitality begins, but not the kind you can plate on a tray.

Now, bless Elkanah’s heart. He tries. He really does. In 1 Samuel 1:8, he sees his wife crying and says, “Why are you weeping, Hannah? Why don’t you eat? Why are you downhearted? Am I not worth more to you than ten sons?” A little tone-deaf? Sure, we all know a guy like that. But at least he’s not ignoring her pain. Elkanah leans in emotionally. He might not understand the full ache in her soul, but he’s not checking out. That’s emotional hospitality. It’s sitting with someone in their sadness and saying, “I’m not leaving, even if I don’t get it.” Sometimes, the best hospitality we can offer is simply showing up with our presence instead of our solutions.

Then comes Hannah’s moment in the temple. She’s praying so fiercely, lips moving, no sound, and Eli, the priest, thinks she’s drunk. I mean, this poor woman can’t catch a break. But here’s the shift: instead of doubling down on judgment, Eli listens. He sees her sorrow. He affirms her. And then he blesses her, saying, “Go in peace, and may the God of Israel grant what you’ve asked.” Now that’s spiritual hospitality, creating a space where someone can collapse at the feet of God, without being policed or pitied.

Eli’s change of heart teaches us something vital: true hospitality sometimes means silencing your assumptions so someone else can speak their truth. And here’s where it gets powerful. God hears Hannah. Not just her words, but her heart. He answers her not just with a son, but with a legacy. Samuel would go on to become one of the greatest prophets Israel ever knew. The one who would anoint kings, confront corruption, and usher in a new chapter for the people of God. Let that sink in: a nation’s future pivoted on a moment of spiritual hospitality shown to a grieving woman in a temple.

God sees. And He responds. Here is the Ripple Effect of 360° Hospitality. Because Elkanah supported Hannah emotionally…Because Eli offered her spiritual refuge (eventually)…Because God met her soul with divine kindness…? A child was born! A nation was changed! And generations felt the ripple.

Hospitality, true hospitality, has that kind of power. It’s not just about food or shelter. It’s about seeing the whole person: their grief, their hope, their questions, their prayers. And saying, “You’re safe here. You’re not alone.”

So, What Does This Look Like for Us Today? Stop shushing people’s pain. Allow them to be transparent. Make room for raw prayers and messy emotions. Don’t stop them from being authentic. Be there for the woman crying in the back row, the man that won’t engage because of shame or hurt, the teen that acts out… Bless them. Offer presence over platitudes. You don’t need all the answers. Just be there.

Hospitality isn’t about perfection. It’s not about matching napkins or Pinterest-worthy pies. It’s about asking the quiet guest, “How are you really?” and listening without fixing. It’s about opening your table, your heart, to people no one else sees.

Be a safe place in someone’s storm. Be the one who sees past the surface and offers peace for the soul. Be the kind of person who sets out not just a meal… but a ministry.

The story of Hannah reminds us: people aren’t just walking through your life hungry for food. They’re hungry to be known. To be heard. To be held in a space where hope feels possible again. That’s the kind of hospitality we’re called to show; 360 degrees. Body. Mind. Spirit. So go ahead, bake the bread, light the candles, fluff the pillows. But don’t forget to also say: “Come in. Tell me your story. I’ve made space for ALL of you.”

Because when you create room for someone’s spirit to breathe, their soul to heal, and their body to rest, you just might be helping birth a miracle that changes the world.

Stay Salty