No Room at the Inn

“Sir, I’m lost can you help me with directions?” It was late in the afternoon on Halloween and the chill in the air was noticeable as the sunlight faded quickly. But the knock at our door wasn’t from a trick or treater getting an early start, it was from a soft-spoken teenage boy shifting his backpack to rest it on our front sidewalk.

“Sure,” I said, “can you show or tell me what the address is?”

When he did, I pulled out my phone and opened the map app, only to discover that the address was not familiar at all. In fact, it was several miles south of Valparaiso, out on a country road—about a twenty-minute drive by car. I explained this to him and then asked the obvious next question: how did he plan to get there? I didn’t see a car anywhere nearby.

He said he planned to walk. Tonight.

I asked how he had gotten to our neighborhood, and he replied simply that he had walked and “hitched.” By then it was clear that darkness would soon settle in, and the idea of a teenager walking for hours along narrow, unlit country roads gave me pause. About then, Kathy joined the conversation, and with her encouragement we offered him a ride.

As we drove, we learned a bit about him. His name was Dom. He told us he had been traveling for two years and that his journey had started in Milwaukee. When we asked if anyone was looking for him, he said quietly that he thought they had probably given up by now.

When we arrived, we realized that the address belonged to Shults-Lewis Child and Family Services. The office was closed, but providence intervened in the form of a custodian walking across the parking lot. He was able to contact the director, who assured us that Dom would not be sleeping outside that night and that he would be connected with appropriate resources and care.

Kathy and I drove home with a sense of gratitude and relief, believing that we had done the right thing. But we also carried something else with us—an uneasiness that has lingered. We wondered, honestly and uncomfortably, whether we would have acted the same way if Dom’s appearance had been different. If he had been Black or brown. If he hadn’t spoken English easily. If he hadn’t looked, to us, like a vulnerable teenager who might have grown up down the street.

That question has stayed with me as we move into Christmas week.

The familiar story we hear this time of year begins with a young couple traveling far from home. Joseph and Mary arrive in Bethlehem tired, exposed, and desperate for shelter. We’re told simply that “there was no room for them in the inn.” Over time, that phrase has taken on a quaint, almost sentimental quality, softened by pageants and carols and nativity scenes bathed in warm light.

But stripped of its familiarity, it is a hard truth. A young woman in labor. A man trying to protect her. Strangers. No room.

So they take shelter where they can—in a place meant for animals. The Son of God enters the world not in safety and comfort, but in vulnerability and risk, dependent on the mercy of others and, ultimately, on God alone.

The Christmas story forces us to confront uncomfortable questions. Who looks like they belong? Who looks safe? Who do we welcome instinctively, and who do we turn away, perhaps without even realizing it? Hospitality is easy when the stranger looks familiar. It becomes far more demanding when the stranger challenges our assumptions or awakens our fears.

Scripture reminds us that in welcoming the stranger, we may be entertaining angels unaware. But it also reminds us that God chose to come among us first as a stranger—born on the margins, recognized by shepherds, fleeing as a refugee before he could walk.

Christmas is not only a celebration of God’s nearness; it is a quiet summons to examine our own hearts. To ask whether there is room—real room—in our lives, our churches, our communities, and our imaginations for those who arrive unexpected, weary, and in need.

Kathy and I are grateful for Dom, for the nudge he gave us toward compassion, and for the questions his presence continues to raise. Those questions may be among the most faithful gifts of this season.

May this Christmas find us making room—not only in our homes, but in our hearts—for the Christ who still comes to us disguised as a stranger.

May His peace and blessing be with you,

Jerry Kahrs