Halloween: A Better Way

The love of strangers, full-size candy bars, and becoming the "Halloween house."

Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

The year was 2008-ish, and my wife and I were being asked to serve at our church’s “Fall Festival” (which, of course, was happening on October 31, to provide some counterprogramming for all those trick-and-treating heathens out there.  We weren’t thrilled with the idea. Our neighborhood was trick-or-treating central in the town where we lived. It was a closed loop, so traffic wasn’t a problem. Families would come, walk the loop, and by the time they were done, the kids’ buckets were filled with candy and they were tired. All the older kids came too.

And the church’s idea was to have us miss out on that, and leave our house dark on this one day when the world comes to our door?  We could do better. We needed to do better. So we declined the offer and started planning. We found a solid, kid friendly tract and order a boatload of them. We went to Costco and bought about 300 full-size candy bars. (Hey, if you’re going to put literature in a kid’s candy bucket, it is imperative that you put some extravagantly good candy with it.). We bought a popcorn stand.  We put folding chairs on the lawn.

Word got out of our plans in the church, and though a few understood our plans and heartily approved, many did not. Worse of all were those who told us that we were participating in “Satan’s holiday.” That’s right, we were celebrating Satan’s day by spreading kindness, neighborliness, and the gospel. I bet Satan was thrilled.

The first year people didn’t know what to make of our house. Not a skeleton in sight, nary a ghost, just a middle aged couple and their kids handing out free coffee and cocoa and popcorn. Engaging people in conversation. Being neighborly. And of course, full-size candy bars.

(The rule was if you were older than elementary school, you had to sing for your candy. This rule came about because the year before we started doing this, we had a trick-or-treater ring our doorbell, and our young daughter answered it. She freaked out when she saw the adult male, impressively dressed as a zombie. My wife quickly asked if the zombie would sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”, and he obliged, calming my daughter down. Thenceforth, adults and teens who wanted some of that full-size candy goodness had a choice between “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” or “I’m a Little Teapot” - with motions.  In the many years we did this, we only had one self-important teen refuse to sing.)

We were located at the back of the loop, so parents were glad for the break and the chairs and the coffee, and we were able to have several Gospel conversations. But that wasn’t really the point. We were practicing hospitality, true xenophilia - the love of strangers.

The next year, we built a fire in the fire pit and brought the grill into the front yard and gave out about 200 free hot dogs. It was a cold year, so the fire pit, the coffee and the cocoa were a smash hit.

Word spread. We became known as the “Halloween house,” much to the chagrin of the house down the street that had the fog machine and spent a small fortune on making their yard spooky.

We kept this up every year until 2016, when we moved across the state. But we’ve heard from reliable sources that the legend of the “Halloween house” remained long after we left, and how nice and generous and loving the people who lived there were.

Our new house doesn’t get any trick-or-treater traffic, sadly. So we look for other ways to show hospitality. This year, we’re throwing a post-trick-or-treating party for our daughter and her high school friends. Not sure how we’re going to make them sing, but I’ll think of something.

I miss being the “Halloween house.”