The bathtub must be my official thinking place because there I was, soaking in the suds, once again thinking about the Bible with the sudden need to pay tribute to a special someone who’d helped me figure out something very important: the innkeeper who made room for Mary to give birth to Jesus in a manger.

As out of the blue as this revelation seems to be, it actually began a little over two years ago in Discussion class, a special class for the Honors College, an educational community at HBU where undergrads gain wisdom from reading the Classics in place of traditional core regimen. We talk about the books we're assigned to read, but that day, there was no book. Instead the provost came in to give a lecture on Image, the ones we give ourselves and others. It was an intense discussion; one where deeply personal feelings are brought to view, namely Brenda's. Brenda was a young lady I'd spoken with a few times outside of class but knew mostly from Discussion. I found her funny and quite likable. She'd said that she often felt reduced to being 'the smart girl' when she felt she had more to offer. By the end of the discussion, she'd started crying, choking on her words and other people cried in her stead, including me. I felt her pain...and I also felt uncomfortable.

You see, I'm what a personality test would call an introvert. I'm also emotionally repressed, meaning that in addition to liking my time alone, it's difficult for me a connect with people emotionally despite my desire for it, especially in scenarios involving heavy emotions like that day. Like Brenda, I'd reduced myself to only being capable of offering intellectual support. I can state facts, communicate ideas clearly, structure an argument, formulate a plan. I'm even good in creative situations; plenty have told me I'm an excellent storyteller. But put me in a room with the crying person or someone in obvious emotional distress and I want to run like the Dickens. It wasn't that I didn't want to help or didn't feel guilty, I'd just convinced myself I couldn't. Keeping to myself outside of school had left me without many experiences my schoolmates had gone through. What did I know about break-ups and bad boyfriends or romance or sex or the million other things college people experience? What's more, what gave me license to give them any kind of advice or help? Friends did that, people the person in trouble has history with and deep affection for, and I had neither. The distance I had put between everyone and myself left me in a whirlwind: wanting to connect but feeling I had neither the right nor the ability.

So as everyone started to leave, my eyes were squarely on Brenda who still had tears on her cheeks. I should do something, I thought. But we don't know each other that well. She might think it's weird. That I'm weird. But I can't leave her like this! So I walked up to her and told her, "I know we don't know each other that well, but can I give you a hug?" She laughed and said yes. And as I wrapped my arms around her, I was struck by how good it felt: Warm with a kind of openness. A settling peace full of goodness. I could still feel her sobbing, her chest going up and down against mine and I only wanted to hug her tighter, hold her longer. The words came out of my mouth without thought: It's OK. Was this what it was like? Being on the other side of the glass? I loved giving comfort. I loved that I was able to give something to someone. It blew me away that it could make me feel this good.

And there I was thinking, All I have is a hug. All I can offer you is a hug. This is all I have, just as I imagine the innkeeper felt when yet another poor couple came to him needing help, after he'd helped all the Marys and Josephs that had come to Bethlehem, his inn full to bursting. And all he had left was a lowly manger. Did he feel as I often do, apologetic of the little you believe you have, even tempted to not give it because you don't believe it’s good enough? He didn’t think he had much and neither did I, but the small things mean a lot more than we know, and little did he know what he may have thought was not enough would become one of the most important places on Earth: the birthplace of the Messiah. A kind word or a hug can be more than enough; help doesn’t always come in the sparkling package most become accustomed to, even to the one giving it.

I believe the Innkeeper deserves a round of applause.