There are certain sounds that belong exclusively to summer.
The distant drone of a lawn mower.
The cheerful complaint of a mosquito who believes you are tonight’s buffet.
The unmistakable music of children arguing over whose turn it is to hold the garden hose.
And then there is that most Canadian of percussion instruments…
BANG!
The screen door.
If you grew up with a proper screen door, you know exactly the sound I mean.
Bang.
Five seconds later…
Bang.
Thirty seconds after that…
Bang again.
By mid-afternoon it has slammed so many times that one begins to suspect the door itself has developed a personality and is expressing opinions.
Somewhere in every neighbourhood there is still a screen door faithfully announcing the comings and goings of summer.
As children we could never understand why adults insisted on saying, “Don’t slam the screen door!”
To a child, this seemed almost impossible.
The door was clearly designed to slam. It possessed a spring that could have launched small satellites into orbit. Even when you tried to close it gently, it seemed to gather momentum halfway through and finish the job with a dramatic flourish.
Bang.
Mission accomplished.
Grace abounds.
What strikes me now is that the sound of the screen door almost always meant something wonderful.
Someone had arrived.
Someone had wandered out for lemonade.
A neighbour had dropped by.
The cousins had come over.
Grandma was carrying another pie.
Someone was heading into the backyard where conversation, iced tea, and mosquito bites awaited.
That familiar bang announced life happening.
The door was opening because people were welcome.
Perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts summer still offers us.
During the colder months we tend to seal ourselves inside. Doors stay shut. Visits require calendars, text messages, weather forecasts, and what appears to be an international treaty negotiated several weeks in advance.
Summer is different.
People wander.
Children move freely between houses.
Neighbours stop while walking the dog.
Someone calls from the driveway, “You home?”
The kettle goes on.
An extra chair appears.
Nobody seems terribly worried if things are perfectly tidy.
In fact, if someone apologizes for the state of the house, the proper Canadian response is almost always, “Don’t worry about it.”
The conversation continues anyway.
I sometimes wonder whether our churches could recover just a little of the theology of the screen door.
Not carelessness.
Not chaos.
Simply openness.
An attitude that quietly says, There is room for one more.
Hospitality has never really depended upon polished furniture or spotless floors. It has always depended upon open hearts.
Jesus seemed remarkably unconcerned about whether people had made appointments.
He kept inviting unexpected guests to the table.
He accepted invitations from unlikely hosts.
He welcomed children who interrupted serious conversations.
He noticed strangers everyone else preferred to ignore.
Again and again, the Gospel sounds remarkably like the steady rhythm of a screen door opening for another guest.
Bang.
Come in.
There’s room.
Have something to eat.
Tell us your story.
Stay awhile.
Perhaps the Kingdom of God grows less through grand events than through ordinary acts of welcome repeated thousands of times.
A neighbour invited for coffee.
A newcomer greeted by name.
A family welcomed without being examined first.
A lonely soul discovering they don’t have to earn a place at the table.
None of these moments seems particularly dramatic.
Neither did the screen door.
It simply kept opening.
And because it kept opening, people kept belonging.
Maybe that is one of the holiest sounds of summer.
Not because of the noise itself.
But because every familiar bang reminds us that someone is always arriving…and someone cared enough to leave the door open.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for every open door, every shared table, and every unexpected visit that reminds us we were created for community. Open our hearts as readily as a summer screen door, that all who cross our paths may find kindness, welcome, and the warmth of your love. Make our homes, our churches, and our lives places where strangers become friends and where everyone discovers there is room enough for grace.
In the name of Christ, who always made space for one more.
Amen.
