REFLECTION 14 JUNE 2026, “WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT, EXPECT IT” 

By Rev Dr Fei Taule’ale’ausumai 

Genesis 18:1–15

When I hear the story of Abraham and Sarah welcoming three strangers, I am reminded of stories my father told me about travelling with my grandfather across the lava fields of Savai’i.

My grandfather was a school inspector in the days before there were cars and sealed roads connecting the villages. His work required him to visit schools throughout the region, often travelling long distances on foot. My father accompanied him as a young boy, carrying his books and bags as they walked.

Together they would cross miles and miles of rugged lava fields under the hot Samoan sun, moving from village to village and school to school. Sometimes the journey would take longer than expected. Sometimes darkness would fall before they reached their intended destination. When that happened, they simply stopped at whichever village they had reached.

There were no telephone calls ahead. No bookings. No appointments. No expectation that someone had to be paid.  The people of the village would simply welcome them.  There was never any discussion about who would host them. Nobody looked away hoping someone else would take responsibility. A family would open their home. A mat would be laid out for sleeping. Food would be prepared and shared. The visitors would be treated with dignity and respect. Then, in the morning, after breakfast, they would continue their journey.

No payment was expected.  It was simply part of who we were.  It was part of the fa’a Samoa.  It was part of fa’aaloalo the deep respect that sits at the heart of Samoan culture.  Hospitality was not an event. It was a way of life.  That spirit of hospitality has never left us.

I remember experiencing it myself many years later when I travelled to Hawaii.  I was going there to stay with my cousin Benny, who was an Assembly of God pastor. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way the message about my arrival never reached him. There I was at Honolulu Airport with no address, no phone number, no contact details, and no way of reaching him.  For a while I wondered what I was going to do.  Then I remembered something that every Samoan knows. Somewhere there would be another Samoan.  So I found a telephone directory and looked up “Assemblies of God” and “Samoan Church.” A pastor answered the phone. I explained who I was, where I had come from, and my predicament.  He didn’t really know my cousin.  He had never met me before.
He had no reason to trust me.  But without hesitation he said, “Wait there. My wife and I will come and get you.”  I later discovered that their daughter was in labour that very night and about to give birth. They had every reason to stay home and focus on their own family.  Yet they still came.  They picked me up from the airport and spent hours driving around Honolulu looking for my cousin. We searched until nearly one o’clock in the morning before finally finding Benny.
A few days later we attended their church to thank them properly, sharing worship, fellowship, and lunch together.  For them, what they had done was nothing extraordinary.  It was simply what Samoans do.  It was part of the fa’a Samoa.  It was part of fa’aaloalo.  It was hospitality offered without calculation, without conditions, and without expectation of reward.

And whenever I read today’s story of Abraham and Sarah welcoming three strangers, I think of people like that pastor and his wife.  People who open their lives to unexpected visitors, who make room for strangers who understand that sometimes the interruption becomes the blessing.

Perhaps that is why this ancient story still speaks to us today.  Hospitality is not just about offering food or shelter. It is about recognising our shared humanity. It is about making room for one another. It is about trusting that when we welcome the stranger, we may encounter something sacred.  That is exactly what happens in today’s reading.

Abraham is sitting at the entrance of his tent in the heat of the day when three strangers suddenly appear.  There has been no warning.  No messenger sent ahead.  No appointment made.  No opportunity to tidy the tent.  No chance to check whether there is enough flour in the cupboard or food in the pantry.
Abraham simply gets up and welcomes them.  He offers water for washing dusty feet.  He invites them to rest under the shade of a tree.  Sarah quickly prepares bread.  A calf is prepared.  Milk and curds are served. A feast appears almost out of nowhere.

I sometimes wonder how many of us would react quite so enthusiastically.  Many of us know the feeling.  The unexpected visitor arrives when the house is untidy.  The grandchildren announce they’re staying for dinner.  Friends drop by when the laundry is still on the couch.  Someone arrives when the pantry is nearly empty and there is nothing planned for tea.  Life has a habit of arriving when we are least prepared.

Yet Abraham and Sarah do not allow inconvenience to become an excuse.  They make room.  And in making room for strangers, they encounter God.

The Letter to the Hebrews would later reflect on this story by saying:  “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.”  Sometimes grace arrives disguised as interruption.  Sometimes blessings come wrapped in inconvenience.  Sometimes the very thing we were not expecting becomes the most important thing that happens to us.

Then the story takes an extraordinary turn.  The visitors announce that Sarah will have a child.  Not someday. Not under ideal circumstances. Not after a medical breakthrough.  But within the year.

Sarah, who has spent a lifetime unable to conceive, and who is now far beyond childbearing age, hears this astonishing promise.  And she laughs.  Honestly, who wouldn’t?  After years of disappointment, years of unfulfilled hopes, years of accepting that some dreams simply were not going to happen, she hears a stranger telling her she is about to become a mother.  The promise sounds ridiculous.  Impossible. Preposterous.  So she laughs. I don’t think Sarah’s laughter is a sign of weak faith.  I think it is the laughter of realism.  The laughter of someone who knows her own story. The laughter of someone who has stopped expecting surprises.

Perhaps many of us understand that kind of laughter.  Life teaches us to lower our expectations.  We experience loss. Disappointment. Grief. Broken relationships. Unfulfilled dreams. Eventually we stop imagining that things could be different. We tell ourselves, “That’s just the way things are.” Sarah had probably reached that point. And then these strangers arrive and suggest that a completely new future is possible. The visitors hear her laugh and ask Abraham, “Why did Sarah laugh?” 

The question invites Sarah and us to remain open to possibilities beyond our imagination.  We don’t have to read this story as a biology lesson.  The deeper truth lies elsewhere. The story reminds us that life is capable of surprising us.  New beginnings can emerge where we thought everything was finished. Hope can appear where we had stopped hoping.  Fresh possibilities can arise when we least expect them.  Many of us have experienced this.  A new friendship after loneliness. A new purpose after retirement. A new opportunity after failure. A healing conversation after years of silence.  A sense of peace after grief.

How often have we found ourselves saying, “I never saw that coming”?  For me, the older I get, the more I realise that some of the most important moments in life are the ones we never planned.  They simply arrive.  Unexpected visitors. Unexpected encounters. Unexpected blessings.  Unexpected hope.  Just as Abraham and Sarah discovered.

Perhaps that is the invitation of this story.  To remain open.  To leave room for surprise. To welcome the stranger. To trust that interruptions are not always inconveniences.  To recognise that God often arrives through the people, opportunities, and moments we did not expect. And when life presents us with a possibility so unexpected that our first response is laughter, perhaps we should remember Sarah.  Sometimes laughter is the first sign that something new is trying to be born.

The God who met Abraham and Sarah beneath the trees of Mamre still meets us today in strangers, in interruptions, in unexpected encounters, and in surprising possibilities. And so the question remains for us: When the unexpected visitor arrives, will we open the door? When life interrupts our carefully made plans, will we pay attention? When hope appears where we least expect it, will we dare to believe it?

For sometimes the blessing arrives when the house is untidy, the pantry is nearly empty, and we feel completely unprepared.  And sometimes the very thing we least expected becomes the gift that changes everything.   

Perhaps this week the invitation is simply this: 

When the unexpected visitor arrives, welcome them. 

When life disrupts your plans, pay attention. 

When opportunity knocks at an inconvenient time, listen. 

When hope appears where you least expect it, don’t dismiss it too quickly. 

And when you find yourself laughing at an impossible possibility, remember Sarah. 

Because sometimes laughter is not the opposite of faith. 

Sometimes laughter is the first step toward recognising that life may be larger, richer, and more surprising than we ever imagined. 

The God of Abraham and Sarah continues to work through unexpected encounters, surprising possibilities, and unanticipated blessings. 

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