There once was a large family named the Harpers. Good people. The kind of family that took up an entire pew every Sunday and half the fellowship hall afterward. They had seven kids, two dogs, one cat that hated everyone equally, and a van that made a noise like it was trying to cough out a demon.

Their budget? Picture a rubber band stretched across the Grand Canyon. And then someone hands you one more bill and says, “Good luck.”

Dad worked long shifts at the milling plant, coming home looking like a sawdust-covered snowman from the Appalachian Alps. Mom took every odd job that didn’t involve hiding a body, babysitting, cleaning, sewing. She once did three jobs in one day and still came home asking, “Okay, what’s next?”

They were good, generous people. But Christmas… Christmas was always tight.

Not because they wanted mountains of gifts. They just wanted the kids to taste something that felt like hope. A dinner that wasn’t made of “whatever’s left” and a holiday memory that didn’t smell like stress.

Then came the church announcement: “Neighborhood Christmas Potluck! Bring a dish for the community!” The Harpers looked at the flyer. Then looked at each other. Then looked back at the flyer like it had personally offended them. A dish? They barely had dinner. But the Harpers had a rule: If you have breath in your lungs, you have something to offer.

So on Christmas Eve morning, while the frost clung to the windows like it was afraid of commitment, Mom gathered everyone around the pantry. “Let’s see what the Lord has given us,” she said. “God can do more with a faithful spoonful than we can do with a full table.” The pantry door creaked open like a horror movie reveal.

Inside waited:

One dented can of navy beans

Half a bag of rice

Three carrots that looked like they been smoking cigarettes behind the barn since birth

An onion that had clearly survived warfare

A handful of confused spices

And a can of coconut milk dropped off months ago by a youth pastor who promised it would “transform your culinary worldview.” It did not.

It looked less like ingredients and more like the contestants of a cooking show where everyone’s destined to fail. Still, the Harpers rolled up their sleeves. Mom chopped the weary vegetables. Dad stirred like the pot owed him money. The kids washed carrots with surgical precision. And something began to happen. Slowly, the kitchen filled with a warm, savory aroma that didn’t match the ingredients. Something rich. Something hopeful. Something that smelled like Christmas should smell when you’ve got nothing left but faith and a few questionable carrots.

They poured the soup into their one pot big enough for a crowd, a pot so scratched and scorched it looked like it had been through the Exodus. “Is it enough?” one child asked.

Dad laid a hand on the pot. “It’s what we have. And that’s enough for God.”

The Harpers carried that humble pot into the fellowship hall, praying it wouldn’t run dry in the first ten minutes. The room was full, single parents, elderly widows, families in between paychecks, folks spending their first Christmas alone. People who weren’t looking for fancy. People who just wanted to belong somewhere for a night.

The Harpers placed their pot between a sad plate of grocery-store cookies and a fruitcake that looked like it had survived the Civil War. Mom whispered, “Lord, stretch it.” And then what happened next would make the Mississippi squirl revival pale in comparison as far as modern church miracles.

No matter how many ladles dipped… No matter how many bowls were filled… The pot never emptied. People came back for seconds. Someone said, “This tastes like Christmas feels.” Even the pastor cried into his third bowl, claiming “it’s my allergies.”

The Harpers knew. They knew what they started with. And it wasn’t enough for this. But God… God was enough. When all the tables were cleared and the final car pulled away, the Harpers went back to the pot. There was still enough left for them to take home. Dad chuckled, “Looks like God wanted a bowl too.” Mom wiped her eyes. “He already had one. Every person we fed was Him in disguise.”

And that night, in that small fellowship hall with a pot that refused to quit, the Harpers learned the Christmas truth Bethlehem taught long before: When you give God your little, He multiplies it into much. When you offer hospitality with what you have, He creates abundance out of emptiness.

Bethlehem: The World’s Most Unlikely Hospitality Center…

Bethlehem: “House of Bread.”

Population: barely worth mentioning.

Tourist attractions: a shepherd field and… uh… that’s pretty much it.

Micah 5:2 calls Bethlehem: “too little to be among the clans of Judah.” In other words, the ancient equivalent of that one town on I-95 with a gas station, a Waffle House, and a billboard that says “Turn around. You missed it.”

But God says: “That’s My spot.” Because God has a habit of doing ridiculous things in ridiculous places with ridiculous people who don’t look like much. A barren couple becomes a nation. A stuttering shepherd becomes a liberator. A teenage girl becomes the ark of the Messiah. A manger becomes a throne room. A cross becomes a doorway. And a tiny, overlooked town becomes the entry point of the King of Kings.

Bethlehem didn’t have wealth.

Bethlehem didn’t have prestige.

Bethlehem didn’t have a palace.

But Bethlehem had availability.

Bethlehem made room, even when the room wasn’t pretty. That’s biblical hospitality. Hospitality is not about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about saying: “What I have, I give. It’s not much, but it’s Yours.”

We love to imagine Advent as soft, warm, glowing, and serene… like a Hallmark movie with better theology. But the first Advent was chaotic.

A government census.

A forced road trip.

A crowded village.

A barn that doubled as a motel.

A feeding trough masquerading as a crib.

This wasn’t “silent night.” This was “noisy, unsanitary, inconvenient, frustrating, ‘why is this happening now?’ night.” But God came anyway.

But Why?

So no one could ever say: “God only works when life is perfect.” The whole Christmas story is God whispering:

“Your lack is not a barrier to Me.

Your inconvenience is not an obstacle.

Your mess is not too messy.

Your smallness is not a problem.”

God doesn’t wait for palaces. He moves into stables. He comes through the side door, not the red carpet. And He still does.

Let’s be honest: Most of us don’t feel like walking spiritual Waffle Houses of hospitality during Advent.

We feel tired.

Stretched.

Broke.

Behind.

Bracing for relatives.

Or grieving the ones we’re missing.

But Scripture teaches this over and over: God’s miracles usually set up shop in the parking lot of our lack. Elijah and the widow with the last bit of flour. Elisha and the woman with nothing but a jar of oil. The disciples staring at 5 loaves and 2 fish. A dying thief with nothing but a sentence begging Jesus to remember him. The early church sharing “as anyone had need” even when they weren’t wealthy.

And of course… Bethlehem, too small, too insignificant, too overlooked, but just right for God. God doesn’t need your abundance. He just needs your yes.

Your willingness.

Your open chair.

Your scratched-up pot of almost-nothing.

Some people think hospitality is Martha Stewart’s spiritual gift. Matching plates, perfect centerpieces, holiday charcuterie boards shaped like wreaths, candles that smell like pine forests and your childhood healing simultaneously.

But biblical hospitality? It’s so different.

Biblical hospitality is:

“I don’t have much, but I have room for you.”

“I’m tired, but I’ll listen.”

“I’m hurting, but I’ll still share my table.”

“My house is messy, but my heart is open.”

“I can’t fix everything, but I can sit with you in it.”

Hospitality is simply presence. Availability. Compassion in motion. It is the heart that says: “I can’t give you everything, but I can give you me.” And that is always enough for God to work with.

The Harpers didn’t have much. Barely enough food for themselves. A pot full of misfit ingredients. A pantry that looked like a failed episode of Chopped. A tired mom, a worn-out dad, and kids who cleaned carrots like their lives depended on it. Nothing about them screamed “Christmas miracle incoming.” But that’s the point. Because Christmas has always belonged to the small, the tired, the stretched, the humble, the overlooked, the ordinary.

That night, in the fellowship hall, God repeated the Bethlehem pattern:

Take the small.

Bless it.

Break it.

Multiply it.

Feed everyone who shows up hungry. The Harpers’ pot became a stable. Their soup became a manger. Their scraps became a feast. Their lack became the staging ground for abundance. And you know what? Every home, every church, every heart this Advent can become the same thing.

This Christmas season, you may feel like Bethlehem.

Too small.

Too tired.

Too stretched.

Too worn-out.

Too overlooked.

Too “not enough.”

Good!

You’re exactly the kind of place God likes to show up. Your table may not look impressive. Your pantry may look like a scavenger hunt. Your energy may be running on fumes. Your house may be loud, messy, chaotic, and a little crooked around the edges.

But listen to me: Your hospitality, even in scarcity, is a miracle waiting to happen. Your small offering is enough. Your open door is enough. Your handful of compassion is enough. Your presence is enough. Because the God who filled the manger, and the pot, and the hillside with angels is the same God who will fill the small spaces you offer Him today.

So, this Advent, here’s the challenge, simple, holy, doable:

Give what you can.

Share what you have.

Open what you’re able.

Offer the pot you carry, scratches, dents, weary vegetables and all.

Let God turn your not-enough into more-than-enough.

Let Him multiply your presence.

Let Him stretch your compassion.

Let Him surprise you in the scarcity.

And maybe, just maybe, someone will walk away from your table this Christmas saying:

“This tastes like hope.

This tastes like home.

This tastes like Christmas.”

Because when we make room for others, we make room for God.

And He always, always, shows up.

Stay Salty

P.S. AND NOW… THE SHAMELESS PLUG. Don’t worry—I’ll make it quick.

If messy tables, holy moments, burnt edges, and redeemed stories hit home for you…
If you want a Christmas read that blends Scripture, hospitality, hope, and a little kitchen chaos…

Then check out my book The Christmas Table on Amazon.

It’s packed with stories, recipes, theology, laughter, scars, and the kind of hospitality that’s carried me my whole life. If you’ve ever wondered how God’s table stays big enough for all of us—even in the mess—this is the one to grab.

Okay… shameless plug over.