If A Bucket Full of Honey was one lesson in radical hospitality, this is another.

Once again, the setting was winter. Once again, Highway 17 had been closed by one of those legendary North Shore storms that seem determined to remind us who is really in charge.

By this time Joy and I had moved from Stevens Avenue into the home we built together almost forty years ago. We named it Sanctuary, and that name has proved more appropriate than we could ever have imagined.

Our children had long since left home. We were retired. Joy had embarked on a new career as a volunteer at the local Thrift Store while I was enjoying a quiet afternoon at home.

The telephone rang.

“Is this George?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Hi. My name is Aaron and we’ve never met. I was just at the Thrift Store and your wife, Joy, told me to call you and tell you to put some extra potatoes in the pot for dinner tonight. You’re going to have three extra people.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“Right!” I answered. “Do you and your companions know how to find our house?”

“Yes,” Aaron replied. “Joy gave us directions and drew us a map. We’re trying to find some winter clothing, so you should expect us around five.”

“Great,” I said. “One question. Do any of you have food allergies I should know about?”

“None at all. See you soon.”

And with that, the call ended.

So I adjusted the dinner plans and started peeling a few more potatoes.

When Joy arrived home a short time later, she asked if I had heard from someone named Aaron.

She explained that three travellers had wandered into the Thrift Store after spending the previous night sleeping in their car. Highway 17 had been closed by the storm, and they had been completely unprepared for the realities of a northwestern Ontario winter.

They had come into the store simply to warm themselves and buy heavier clothing.

Joy’s response was immediate.

She invited them to take whatever winter clothing they needed and consider it a gift from the Thrift Store.

Then she offered them food and shelter in our home until the highway reopened.

They accepted.

And so Aaron, Sanderson, and Emgardt became part of our household for the next few days.

As often happens when strangers become guests, they quickly became friends.

All three worked in television production and were based in Winnipeg. For Emgardt, however, everything was new. She had recently arrived from Nigeria and was relocating to Winnipeg to join the same production company as Aaron and Sanderson.

Conversation flowed easily.

Aaron was producing films dealing with Indigenous issues in Canada, a subject that had long interested both Joy and me, so we found ourselves talking late into the evenings about history, reconciliation, and storytelling.

One evening, after dinner, I introduced them to another of my hobbies.

For years I had collected sipping rums—not the sort mixed with cola, but rums meant to be savoured slowly while conversation unfolds around the table.

Together we sampled several favourites, each accompanied by another story and another laugh.

During those few unexpected days I was also able to indulge another passion: cooking.

Nothing pleases me more than preparing a meal for others, and our guests gamely sampled some of our favourite recipes.

Eventually the storm passed and Highway 17 reopened.

When it came time for our new friends to continue westward, Joy and I sent them on their way with a bottle of wine each and jars of our homemade Arrabbiata sauce for future meals.

About a week later, around supper time, the telephone rang again.

It was Aaron.

In the background we could hear laughter and conversation.

He explained that he, Sanderson, Emgardt, and members of their families had gathered for an Italian dinner featuring the wine and Arrabbiata sauce we had sent home with them.

They weren’t calling because they needed anything.

They were calling simply to say thank you and to share their story with us.

Over the years we have received other unexpected phone calls from these friends, just checking in and staying connected.

I have often reflected that when Joy and I named our home Sanctuary, we thought we were naming a place.

Perhaps, without realizing it, we were naming a way of living.

Sometimes all it takes to begin is a phone call and a simple instruction:

“Put a few extra potatoes in the pot.”