Be My Guest   

Guest: Someone who’s been invited to invade your space — your home, your table, or your country, and, depending on how old you are, maybe even your toys.

A Guest is not to be confused with “Visitor,” who may or may not be a welcome addition. Think meddler or mouse — both of whom just show up, entitled.

As hosts, we graciously open our homes to others, often moving our own children to their siblings’ bedroom floors in order to accommodate everyone. We prepare guest rooms by making the beds with the requisite “good” linen, fresh (matching) towels in the bathrooms, modest (designer) water bottles, some mini toiletries, souvenirs of past hotel stays, and other sundry simchah-bag offerings, along with the only safety pins and Band-Aids in the house, all placed in a pretty basket.

If we’re feeling very nice, we have a few individually wrapped candies in a small dish next to the box of tissues, plus a Shabbos lamp and a working electric clock whose alarm has been disabled. Please don’t ask me how I know about the importance of a disabled alarm on the clock.