No Vacancy at the Inn, No Vacancy in My Heart

Which side of the story will you be on?

We were waiting in holiday traffic at the intersection to enter Target, surrounded by road-raging Scrooges who seem to come out in force this time of year. Horns honked, and cars sat unmoving. I turned on the radio and took a sip of my Chestnut Praline latte. My mom sighed in solidarity.

“Oh,” she said. “Look over there. Something’s happening.”

Something was definitely happening at the Extended Stay motel. Police cars were parked in tandem slots, their lights spinning.

“That doesn’t look good,” I remarked, as yet another green light came and went, leaving us stuck in place.

There isn’t much crime in my neck of the woods. Police tend to hyper-respond to every little incident, so it’s hard to tell whether a gathering like that meant something violent had happened—or something trite.

And then I saw them.

A tall, muscular man stood in the center of the flashing chaos, his right arm wrapped protectively around a beautiful, wide-eyed toddler. In the other hand, he held a trash bag stuffed with clothing.

“Oh no,” I murmured.

Years earlier, I worked with subsidized housing, so I’d seen my share of evictions. I’d watched as sheriffs escorted families out to the street—hours of bartering, screaming, crying, and sometimes begging. The end result was always the same: a homeless family.

But this one hit harder.

The man didn’t scream or cry. He didn’t get angry or plead. He just stood there, accepting his fate with the listless glare of emotional separation. As Christmas music played and flavored lattes steamed in holiday-themed cups, the curly-headed little girl buried her face in her dad’s chest.

Daddy will make everything okay. Daddy always makes everything okay.

Eventually, the light turned green, and I peeled my eyes away from the heartbreaking scene. I wanted to move on, but the image lingered. I tried to distract myself with Christmas shopping, cleaning, decorating, and mailing cards. But the weight of what I had seen stayed with me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about that little girl swinging her feet nervously, about her father standing so still, clutching her while the world crumbled around them. I wondered what it felt like to have the bottom drop out of their lives while the rest of us buzzed about like festive little bees.

Part of me wanted to push the memory away. The holidays are supposed to be full of joy, not sorrow. But then I thought: what is this season truly about? Is it only about presents, laughter, and singing? About Santas, sugar cookies, and Will Ferrell movies?

No.

This season is about love. It’s about making space for the weary, the burdened, and the brokenhearted.

That’s when I realized why the memory of that eviction stayed so heavy in my chest: because in real time, I’d been reminded of another family—a family with no place to go on a cold winter night. A child crying in the darkness. A world with no room for the weary.

I’d seen that father clutching his daughter, and in my heart, a No Vacancy sign had been flashing.

I had no room for them—not in my home, not in my wallet, not in my heart. And the weight of that truth still fills me with regret.

I called around afterward, hoping to find them. Not that I had much to offer, but I felt compelled to try. Still, as is often the case, the thing about homelessness is sometimes people can’t be found.

It’s been years since that day, but I think about it every Christmas season. While I can’t go back and undo my inaction, I try to honor the lesson it taught me. Yes, I celebrate the holidays with warmth and laughter, with presents and cheesy holiday movies. But I also make space in my heart—and yes, my wallet—for those in need.

I pray for the courage to act when I see an opportunity. That neither fear nor pride will stop me. And most of all, I pray that the No Vacancy sign in my heart remains unplugged forever.

Because if I have no room for those in need, then I am the Innkeeper.

And that’s not the side of the story I want to be on.

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Dear friends,

It means everything to me that you’re here. Writing is not only my work—it’s my way of connecting with you, and I’m deeply grateful for that. I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because encouragement should never come with a price tag.

For those of you who choose to support this work financially, thank you for keeping the lights on.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine