This is a Bothy

Abiding in Hope

by

Iowa Annual Conference | Oct. 24, 2024

This is a bothy, or at least a miniature ceramic bothy. A real bothy is an actual cottage that serves as a basic shelter for anyone to use free of charge. They are found in remote areas of Scotland. They are left unlocked and hikers or herders or wanderers can take shelter inside. They are pretty primitive, no bathrooms, no electricity, no running water, but they offer shelter from rain or storms or nighttime hazards. They are maintained by volunteers or a Bothy association. (If you want to know more about them, do an internet search.) 

I was in Scotland a few weeks ago. When I learned about bothies, I was captivated. Strangers provide shelter for other strangers who pass by.

When we talk about the necessities of life we say food, clothing and shelter. Bothies are a direct response to the third necessity. The simplicity and generosity of bothies is mind-boggling. Need shelter? Here. Whoever you are passing by, open the door, step in, here find shelter.

When I think of bothies, I can’t help but think of the millions of people around the world in need of shelter. Those recovering from Hurricanes Helene and Milton are now trying to restore some sort of shelter. The people of Gaza have been displaced multiple times, looking again and again for shelter. The people living along the US southern border are also seeking shelter. (What happens when it rains along the border?) According to the United Nations, there are more than 117 million displaced persons worldwide, people without shelter. In Des Moines, there are hundreds of unhoused people. Des Moines, like many urban areas, is struggling to find a compassionate response.

Many of us have been on mission trips where we hung sheet rock and painted porch steps and generally created shelter for others. The work was often hard and dirty and soul-gratifying. It was good work. At the end of the week, we drove away, back home to our homes, perhaps not giving much thought to the necessity of shelter, or the people who slept under the roof we repaired.

The church is a sort of shelter or can be. The word “sanctuary” means a place of refuge or safety. Our sanctuaries have sometimes been actual sanctuaries for people seeking asylum.

Shelter is not always bricks and mortar. Anne Lamott writes that when people are going through hard times the people around them build a barn, not an actual barn, but a barn made of comfort and casseroles, someone to mow the lawn or drop off groceries. I have been the recipient of that sort of shelter. After an awful diagnosis, someone rang my doorbell and dropped off a pair of flannel pajamas printed with penguins. Those pajamas became my shelter, and I wore them for years until they had more holes than fabric.

Friendship is often a good roof over our heads. In times of loss, hugs from loving arms become shelter. In times of injury, words spoken in our defense shelter us. Compassion is a shelter. Justice is a shelter.

To shelter a friend is a reflex. To shelter a stranger, that’s another thing.

Isaiah 25:4 sings to God: “For you have been a refuge to the poor, a refuge to the needy in their distress, a shelter from the rainstorm and a shade from the heat.”

Sounds a lot like the definition of a bothy.

In Matthew 8:20, Jesus said, “Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” Was he grieving the loss of shelter? Was there no one who would provide a roof over his head or a way to escape the pressures that surrounded him? Can we still hear the pain in his voice? He began his life in the shelter of a stable. It ended in the shelter of a tomb. It’s another mystery of faith that one who shelters us found so little shelter in his own life.

Bothies are simple. A good roof to keep out the rain. Maybe a fireplace for warmth. An open door.

But the impetus behind bothies is not simple. Our desire or lack of desire to shelter others is as complicated as the contours of our hearts.

I find shelter in the idea of bothies, the notion that strangers can care enough to offer shelter to people they don’t know. That’s the world I long for. That’s the world, I hope, we work for. 

The Rev. Cindy Hickman is a retired clergy member of the Iowa Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church. Subscribe to Abiding in Hope