The front porch

I mopped the veranda today - veranda and steps and railings, actually.  It could be called a porch, but here it is a veranda.  This is an important part of the house.  It is a shared space, a meeting place.  Vivian often sits out to drink her coffee and feel the gentle breezes to greet the day.  I usually at least look out to check the weather.  But the veranda is much more than that.  It is an extension of the house, of our living area.  People we do not know will not even come up the stairs, let alone come onto the veranda; even parishioners are cautious until given permission to 'come up' onto the veranda.  My sandals sit outside the door, as no one wears shoes in their or others' houses.  But most visitors will not even come onto the veranda in their footwear, leaving them on the stairs. This is also a roosting place for birds overnight, and the sugar cane ash [they burn the cane fields before harvesting] collects here, hence the need for frequent mopping.  .  We frequently invite visitors to come up, but the number that have gone past the veranda are few indeed. No one expects to enter the house proper, and frankly, with any sort of breeze, the veranda is more pleasant.  

The veranda does not have an equivalent in North America as far as I know -- a space shared by so many for such purposes, a space outside the house yet incorporated into it.  I keep thinking there should be something theological that can be said about such a place. Is it like the church on earth - still part of the Kingdom, but also a gathering place for members, seekers and strangers alike?  Holy ground for which we remove our shoes?  [Interestingly, we don't take off our shoes when we enter the church.]

Or maybe it's just a handy place for people to be and feel welcome.  Sorta like the church after all.