Is hospitality always about whipping up a hot dish? Not necessarily. Sometimes, it’s about showing someone the ropes, just like God did with Noah. Instead of serving up a five-course meal, God gave Noah the ultimate survival guide, complete with blueprints for an extended stay on a floating barn. He didn’t just hand Noah supplies and say, “Good luck with the rain!” God walked him through the process, equipping him for the journey ahead. That’s hospitality too—meeting someone’s needs in the moment, even if it’s not food-related.

I saw this kind of hospitality in action when my family moved to Georgia. One of the first people we met was our realtor, and let me tell you, she was more than just someone helping us find a house. She quickly became our unofficial tour guide to Southern life. In our first interaction, we discovered we’d grown up just 20 miles apart—a small-world moment that made us feel right at home in a new place.

She didn’t stop at showing us houses. She became a lifeline for everything we needed to figure out, from the best grocery stores to the go-to Dunkin’ for a perfect cup of coffee. (And if you grew up in New England, you know how crucial that intel is!) To this day, she’s not only a close friend but a resource we’re endlessly grateful for. God placed her in our lives right when we needed someone to help us navigate, and she embraced the role wholeheartedly.

That’s the beauty of hospitality—it’s not limited to the table. Sometimes, it’s as simple as showing up, offering guidance, or helping someone feel a little less lost in the wilderness they’re wandering. Like Noah’s ark-building crash course or my realtor’s Dunkin’ recommendations, hospitality is about equipping others for the road ahead. It’s about making people feel cared for, whether you’re handing them a meal or handing them a map.

So, here’s the setup: God tells Noah, “Alright, round up the family, and don’t forget a few extra pairs of animals for the ride.” Rain was coming, and not just for an afternoon sprinkle—forty days and forty nights of the stuff. This wasn’t just packing for the weekend; this was the ultimate prepper setup. And sure enough, God wasn’t arranging a garden on board or dropping down a miracle every day. He left Noah with instructions and a game plan, so that when it came time to eat, Noah could feed his family right.

Now, I know about rough weather. Growing up in New England, when November rolled around, there were days when the cold crept into your bones, damp as the rain pouring outside. That’s when my family knew exactly what to do—make a big pot of chili. There was something about ladling out a steaming bowl on a dark, chilly day that warmed you up from the inside out. The smell alone would pull you in from anywhere, fighting off that bone-deep cold just long enough to remind you, you were home, safe, and surrounded by family.

Picture Noah’s family on that ark, cold, tired, maybe a little homesick. After all, the world they’d known was now underwater, and they were adrift with nothing but the animals, the waves, and each other. It probably took a couple of days to get their bearings, but once they did, I bet that first warm meal was a lifesaver. I imagine them huddled together, sharing a pot of stew in the dim light, finding a tiny bit of normalcy amid the storm. God could’ve let them sleep through the trip or rained down manna, but He didn’t. He set things up so they’d have to come together, share in that ritual of making a meal, sitting together, and connecting.

Hospitality doesn’t have to be a five-course meal with your fine china or a Pinterest-worthy table setting. Sometimes, it’s as simple as showing up and using what you’ve got—just like God did for Noah. When the rain poured and the floodwaters rose, God didn’t hand Noah a mansion on a hill or a luxury cruise liner. Instead, He gave him a floating barn, a detailed plan, and the promise of His presence. Noah and his family shared meals, worked together, and built a bond forged in survival, knowing that everything they had come from God’s provision.

I saw that same kind of roll-up-your-sleeves hospitality firsthand during one of Georgia’s big storms. When the power went out across the state, families were left sweating in the dark—no electricity, no water, no hot meals, and, let me tell you, no AC. In the stifling Southern heat, that’s no joke. But instead of sitting pretty, our church stepped up in the biggest way.

The church still had power, and they took that blessing as a green light to act. They threw the doors wide open like Noah building an ark for the neighborhood. Need a cool place to rest? Come on in. Can’t reach your family because your phone’s dead? We’ve got outlets ready for you. Hungry? No problem—we’re firing up the grills.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was exactly what people needed. Everyone brought whatever they could spare—some meat from a thawing freezer, sides thrown together in a pinch—and the parking lot became a community cookout. But it wasn’t just about the food. It was about creating a space where folks could breathe, laugh, and remember they weren’t in this alone. People prayed together, swapped stories, and found hope in the simple act of sharing a meal and a moment.

It reminded me of Noah and his family huddled on that ark. Their meals weren’t extravagant, but each one was a testament to survival, trust, and a God who saw them through the storm. That parking lot cookout felt like a modern-day ark—a place where people leaned on one another and God’s provision in a time of need.

Hospitality doesn’t always come with a tablecloth and fine wine. Sometimes, it looks like a hotdog on a paper plate, a cold room on a sweltering day, or even just a phone charger offered with a smile. It’s about stepping into the mess, meeting people right where they are, and reminding them—and yourself—that God’s provision shows up even in the storms.

And that’s what hospitality is at its core—not about the food, but about showing up for others, making room, providing what’s needed. And it doesn’t have to be gourmet. Can you drop off some canned goods for a neighbor whose struggling? Offer to take someone grocery shopping? Grab a cup of coffee with the new guy and ask him how he’s settling in? These simple acts—small gestures of kindness—build relationships, just like those family dinners on the ark. It’s all about connection, helping someone feel seen, known, and cared for.

Now watch this, do you know what did Noah do when that door finally opened, and they stepped back onto solid ground? First thing, he set up an altar, lit up the new world’s first Holy Cook-Out, and sent up a smoke signal to God as a “thank you.” It wasn’t the smell of the barbecue itself that earned God’s promise never to flood the Earth again—it was the relationship Noah had built with Him. It was that trust, that bond, that connection, showing gratitude even after all they’d been through. Because hospitality—true hospitality—isn’t about a fancy meal. It’s about creating space for someone to feel at home, even if that “home” happens to be a smelly, overcrowded ark in the middle of a flood or a Church in a strip mall in GA. And if we can learn that….. we will be all the better for it. Whether we’re ladling out chili on a rainy New England day or huddling up for a meal on a floating ark