We need to throw more parties.
At least, that’s what my husband and I decided last year in an attempt to beat back the sorry shroud of despondency that had settled over us. Many of the parties we hosted were small gatherings, some were medium, and two were big. All of them were splendid.
Our parties were splendid for happening at all. On paper, you see, we had no business celebrating: In fact, we were in the trenches, facing serious problems trying to care for our children. All three of them had come to us through foster care and adoption. They are precious and talented—and have significant health issues. We were spending hours each week getting treatment and adjusting medications. Our desks held piles of bills. We were in the middle of court proceedings for an insurance appeal. All the while, our kids were doing worse. Our prayers were mostly laments. The household was hardly a party playground.
Yet our conviction grew nonetheless: We needed to party.
We were inspired by several friends who had shown us sweet care by inviting us to their shindigs. My favorites were the impromptu occasions. One friend asked us the day of his birthday to come over and celebrate that evening. He was late in planning and had a hankering for croque-monsieur, a sandwich his wife had volunteered to make. We had never heard of such things and were tickled to our toes. We shuffled over to their house, where they greeted us with lively welcomes, bubbly drinks, and chips and dip. Weary and lackluster though we appeared, we still saw a glimmer of hope. We were loved and not lost; merrymaking was still possible and within our reach.
Merrymaking is rare, however. Americans attend parties about half as often as they did in 2003. Only about 4 percent of us have a get-together on the calendar for a given upcoming weekend. Almost three-quarters of us have no plans for a party on our birthday. Who would we gather with?
Our friend pools are small—only 64 percent of us say we have more than one good friend—and expanding our circles is hard since we’re hesitant to talk with new people.
We need more parties, and fast. When my husband and I came to that realization in our own lives, my sister suggested I read Priya Parker’s wonderful book The Art of Gathering.
Any gathering, Parker declares, can strengthen our bonds to one another. When we understand why we’re gathering, we become leaders in human connection. The guests we invite, the conversations we have, and the space we arrange are all an art form of love and meaning.
In other words, parties are ministry—a ministry of joy for host and guest alike.
I’ve always loved the opening lines of the marriage ceremony in the Book of Common Prayer: “Jesus Christ adorned this manner of life by his presence and first miracle at a wedding in Cana of Galilee.” It strikes me that Jesus was also adorning parties. His contribution to the proceedings, after all, was more wine—the best yet. He could have given a sermon or a practical gift, but instead he replenished the “wine that maketh glad the heart of man” (Ps. 104:15, KJV).
Jesus’ sober-minded loyalty to his Father’s purposes is clear in every New Testament scene. Yet parties were a major part of his ministry, and many of his parables of the kingdom are set at fancy banquets. He describes God as a rejoicer, celebrator, party-thrower extraordinaire. Jesus was also present at so many dinners that his detractors called him “a glutton and a drunkard” (Matt. 11:19). Many guests with him were tax collectors and sinners, sellouts and down-and-outs who perhaps had no business celebrating either, except for one reason: Christ was come.
Christ is come. He is bringing about a salvation the prophet Isaiah equated to a magnificent banquet:
The Lord Almighty will prepare
a feast of rich food for all peoples,
a banquet of aged wine—
the best of meats and the finest of wines.
On this mountain he will destroy
the shroud that enfolds all peoples,
the sheet that covers all nations;
he will swallow up death forever. (Isa. 25:6–8)
Our prayers of lament are an important response to the reality of sin and death, and fasting pushes us to rely on God. But parties have their place, too, telling of the corresponding reality of God’s mighty salvation. To gather round and make merry, to flaunt our finery, dance, sing, and celebrate, is to witness to the hope that is ours in Jesus Christ. Brought into God’s household, we become a party people.
My family had plenty to celebrate even as we wrestled with insurance and health problems. We had friends to invite, food to share, a home to open, family who loves us, and a God who takes our grief in hand and turns it to songs of joy (Ps. 10:14; 126:6). Our own parties mimic, in our small way, the grace and generosity of the King who is forming for himself a people who love him and each other.
We planned our first big party for after Easter.
Our croque-monsieur friends loaned us a handy little book called The 2-Hour Cocktail Party by Nick Gray, a guide for giving a simple, sweet party. We followed the steps: We printed invitations and passed them to friends, acquaintances, and as many neighbors as possible. We told people to wear festive attire. We bought provisions, extra glasses, and a new tablecloth. We moved chairs around and sent enthusiastic reminders.
The morning of the party, though, my daughter woke up with severe side pain. By noon she was in the emergency room.
As I sat with her, the hospital-room door opening and closing—first for the intake nurse, then the medical assistant, the registrar, the doctor, the nurse again, the transport aides, the doctor again, and the snack lady in slow progression—I alternately prayed and fretted. Maybe this was a sign that we really did have no business trying to give a party. Look at us! The afternoon we needed to prepare was swallowed up. Our guests might arrive and find us unprepared, flustered, clearing clutter and tossing ice into bowls.
Was it faithless to cancel? Was it foolish not to?
I thought of Jesus at dinners with friends and strangers, tranquil and attentive to those who gathered with him to eat and drink. A supernatural calm settled over me. A long ER visit was cartoonishly discouraging, but it was also a way we might see God’s love in action. He might have something wonderful in store.
And so he did.
I went home a couple times to check with my husband, put out a few things, and jot down some to-dos. I changed into my fancy outfit and went back to the ER to wait.
Our party was scheduled for 7 p.m. At 6:15, the hospital staff seemed to be moving toward discharging my daughter. At 6:35, we got all our paperwork and clearance to leave. We got home 15 minutes before the party’s start time. I hurriedly got out the ice and the small plates.
A good friend was one of the first to arrive—she had brought beautiful platters of sliced vegetables, translucent red, white, and golden discs arrayed around creamy spreads. She took them into the kitchen to unwrap. I spilled my news.
“Guess where we’ve been all day,” I blurted.
“Where?” she asked.
“The emergency room,” I said, blinking and smiling through tears.
“Oh, Wendy,” she said. She looked me in the eye and squeezed my shoulder.
We took the platters to the table with the other food, then filtered toward the center room, where a pleasant hum of guests shrugged out of their coats and stepped forth in nice clothes. We poured our drinks and clinked. It was splendid.
A month later, the weather had warmed. My family and I were invited to a barbecue at the neighbor’s house. We were standing in the yard chatting with a newcomer when our croque-monsieur friend walked up.
I went to say hello. “It’s good to see you,” I said. “But how do you know the hosts?”
He gave me an odd look. “I met them at your party,” he said. “We exchanged numbers.”
I remembered now: They had struck up a conversation in our dining room after everyone had said their names and answered the icebreaker question. Both had new babies, liked to listen to podcasts, and apparently now were also friends.
Throwing parties is an exercise in hope, a phrase I love from Esau McCaulley. Because of our hope in Christ, we as his church can be a party people. We can lay the table and watch the ruler of the feast adorn it. We and our guests can celebrate together, even in life’s sorrows, that we are loved and not lost. What a splendid gift!
Wendy Kiyomi is an essayist who writes on the trials of faith, complexities of adoption, and delights of friendship. She lives in Tacoma with her family and is a 2023 winner of the Zenger Prize for journalistic excellence.
