The “Yes” That Heals

Hospitality in a Broken World

Recently, we welcomed our 600th guest to Casa Alterna—a young man named Lucas, who arrived on his 18th birthday. That his arrival marked such a milestone was no coincidence; it was providence.

Lucas came to the U.S. earlier this year as an unaccompanied minor, longing to reunite with his father.

Lucas came to the U.S. earlier this year as an unaccompanied minor, longing to reunite with his father—someone he hadn’t seen in six years. Under the current administration, that reunion was denied. Instead of being welcomed home, Lucas was placed in a group home. Ironically, it was in that institutional space where he finally encountered what childhood could feel like: nourishment, rest, play, and learning. And yet, even that experience came with a looming deadline. As his 18th birthday approached, Lucas had to face a tough situation. He needed to find safe housing in an unfamiliar land. Otherwise, he would be transferred to adult detention for deportation. That’s when his attorney found us.

On his birthday, we welcomed Lucas into the Atlanta Friends Meeting. I took him to a gathering that turned into an impromptu celebration. Originally planned for a friend’s 40th, the gathering was hosted by members of the Focolare Movement, a community rooted in a vision of unity and mutual love across boundaries. When we arrived, they added Lucas’ name to the handmade decorations, honored his presence, and folded him into their joy. It was a glimpse of Beloved Community: strangers made friends, and joy multiplied.

At the party, Lucas quietly told me he wished he were turning 13 instead of 18. Not because he feared adulthood, but because he had never really had a childhood. Growing up in Central America, his life had been shaped not by toys and playgrounds, but by hard labor. I don’t know whether he had shined shoes, picked through trash for recyclables, or worked in the fields to put food on the table—but I know it was work no child should bear. His longing to be a child again wasn’t naïve. It was profoundly human. It was a quiet protest against the way poverty and violence prematurely age too many of our children.

A few days later, I drove Lucas to reunite with his father. The journey was filled with anticipation—and delay. We struggled to reach his father by phone, and when we finally did, we had to wait until he got off work. The skies opened up as we drove—rain steady and unrelenting. I had my own apprehensions. Would the reunion be joyful? Would it bring healing or more ache?

But when we arrived at his father’s modest trailer and his dad stepped outside, none of that mattered. His father ran to him, arms wide open. Lucas wept—the kind of cry that had been stored deep inside for years. Not the cry of a man, but of a child finally held by his papá. 

We are the prodigal nation—squandering compassion, separating families, erecting borders between love and justice.

This wasn’t the prodigal son returning home. No, we are the prodigal nation—squandering compassion, separating families, erecting borders between love and justice. The sin isn’t theirs—it’s ours.

The systems that shaped Lucas’s journey—U.S. foreign policy, economic exploitation, militarized borders, and decades of displacement—didn’t just happen. They were chosen. And yet, so was hospitality. A simple yes brought Lucas to safety. A simple yes opened the door to joy. A simple yes led to a sacred embrace I will never forget.

I love how a simple ‘yes’ to hospitality places me on the frontlines of hope. Yes, the pain is real. Yes, suffering abounds. But so does the tenacity of hope—and the quiet, stubborn resolve of love. In Lucas, I saw Christ—the child the empire tried to forget. In the birthday celebration, I glimpsed heaven—the feast where the last are first. And in his father’s embrace, I saw God—not waiting in judgment, but running toward us, urging us to come home.

Say yes—yes to welcome, yes to love, yes to the one who knocks at our door.

We do not need to fix the world to join in its healing. We need only to say yes—yes to welcome, yes to love, yes to the one who knocks at our door.

written by Anton Flores-Maisonet

At the Threshold:
What might happen if, in your own life, you said yes to the stranger at your door? What if you welcomed the need that calls quietly? How could a simple act of hospitality become a step toward healing—for them, for you, and for the wider community?