This morning at church we listened to an inspiring sermon by Rev. Robert Shearer of Victoria, British Columbia. His message, based on Genesis 18:1–15, reflected on hospitality—radical hospitality, the kind that welcomes the stranger without first asking who they are or what they might offer in return.

For many years the core ministry of St. John’s United Church in Marathon has been “Radical and Intentional Hospitality.” It is more than a slogan. It is a way of life that has shaped our congregation and, in many ways, shaped Joy and me.

One winter, many years ago, we were living on Stevens Avenue in Marathon with our three young children. It was a season of extraordinary snowfall. By late afternoon I was outside shovelling our driveway for the third time that day when a transport truck pulled to a stop in front of our house.

The driver rolled down his window.

“Is there any place in town where my partner and I might find accommodation for the night?” he called. “Highway 17 is closed because of the storm, and every motel room is full.”

“Sit tight!” I shouted back over the sound of the engine.

Dropping my shovel where it stood, I hurried into the house.

“Joy,” I asked, “there are two young fellows stranded here because the highway is closed. Are you okay with my inviting them to stay with us until the road opens?”

Without a moment’s hesitation she answered, “Of course. Invite them in.”

And that is exactly what we did.

They parked their rig across the street near the curling club and came into our home.

We settled them into Richard and David’s bedroom. By then the boys were sleeping in regular beds, so they happily camped out in our room while our unexpected guests stayed with us. Karen’s room was too small to accommodate all three children, who at the time were six, seven, and eight years old.

Around the dinner table we began learning about one another. We discovered that they were transporting a load of live bees from a beekeeper near Hagersville in southwestern Ontario to Calgary. To our astonishment, the bees had come from a farm owned by one of Joy’s second cousins.

Naturally, I became concerned about the bees.

Thinking I had a brilliant idea, I suggested that I could call some contacts in town and arrange for the truck to be parked inside the arena across the street, out of the weather.

Their reaction was immediate.

“No! No! We can’t do that!”

Apparently, if the bees warmed up, they might leave the hives and begin searching for food.

“They’ll take care of themselves just fine where they are.”

I remember picturing one poor little bee failing to get back to the hive before departure and desperately trying to catch up with the truck as it disappeared down Highway 17. It was obvious that I knew very little about the life of bees.

With the bees safely settled, we got on with the more important business of hospitality.

Schools were closed because of the storm, so our family spent two wonderful days together with these unexpected guests. We shared meals, played games, read stories with excited children, and simply enjoyed getting to know two strangers who had suddenly become friends.

They remained with us for two nights until Highway 17 reopened.

When the time came for them to leave, they insisted on paying us for the room and meals. We politely refused.

Instead, we asked only one thing.

“When the opportunity comes,” we told them, “pay it forward.”

There were hugs all around before they climbed back into their truck and continued westward with their cargo of bees.

For days afterward our family talked about how fortunate we had been to meet them. Sadly, the years have dimmed my memory, and I no longer remember their names.

But they remembered us.

Several months later, after returning home from school one spring afternoon, we discovered a five-gallon pail of fresh honey sitting on our back steps.

Beside it was a note from our two truck-driving friends thanking us for the hospitality they had received in Marathon.

I often think about that bucket of honey.

It was never about repayment. The sweetest part was knowing that a simple act of opening our home had been remembered.

Perhaps that is what radical hospitality is all about. We make room for strangers without expectation, trusting that kindness has a way of finding its own road home.

Sometimes it even arrives in a five-gallon pail.