“Waffle House Worship"

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-10)

Sunday.

On the calendar, this day of the week is most often celebrated as a time of rest. A moment away from the hustle of routine work responsibilities. An opportunity to bond with family members neglected during the rush to earn a living. For some, it marks a time to pause and give thanks to a higher power. A focal point for worship and reflection.

In the Ice household, our faith demands such a pause. Not only to explore the concept of a divine creator, but also to honor a manifestation of that glory. To visit a temple of culinary faith and sit in pews constructed as booths and truckstop counters. At a church we call the ‘Waffle House.’

My most recent pilgrimage began in the afternoon. I was still drowsy from a late night sharing stories around the fire with my neighbors. A benefit of living in a rural area of Ohio, at a park with the summer mood of a low-buck campground. My t-shirt reeked a bit of spilled beer and stray wood smoke. But I felt no shame. The cleansing ritual of a communion with diner food lay ahead. I knew that a better self would emerge from the brick, metal, and glass of that sanctuary. A soul chastened and healed for yet another week.

My intended faith-partner was Janis, a bohemian friend from Ashtabula County. Her post-hippie style and minimalist outlook helped to make such visits less solitary. Though she did not share my own philosophical devotion to the creed of coffee, comity, and praise at the counter-top, her presence made the journey more complete.

Still feeling groggy, I intended to pick her up in the afternoon.

A Cleveland Indians baseball game crackled from the radio. As I pulled into her driveway, not far from lake Erie, my pulse began to quicken. Sunshine brightened the sky over her modest home. I sent a cellphone text to announce my arrival. Then, adjusted the air conditioning. It was already in the 80’s. I did not want her to feel uncomfortable.

When she appeared, her orange, Harley-Davidson apparel literally seemed to glow. Her faux-purse, a promotional tote from Schwebels bread in Youngstown, swung freely as she walked. Her red hair had been pulled back, and tied with a crude twist of rubber bands. The look was efficient and familiar. A personal style rendered without overthinking.

I daydreamed about grits, hash browns and bacon.

Suddenly, Janis halted her stride. She tilted ominously and began to void the contents of her stomach. My eyes snapped open, forcefully. I stared straight ahead, in total disbelief. A gentle curse slipped from my mouth.

“Ulllp, ullp. Gahh. R-R-Rawwwwww!”

I reckoned her hurl-in-the-grass was some sort of optical illusion. One brought on by my own fatigue after many adult beverages, during the previous night of festivity. But then, she stood still for a second time. Arched and sour-faced. Convulsing while her bag continued to swing.

“Rawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww...”

Anyone else would have apologized, spun around, and retreated humbly to the couch. But she professed a total disconnection from any kind of illness. I sat in stunned silence as she entered my truck.

“You really want to go out for a meal?”

Janis gave me a look of bemused indifference. She insisted that the episode sprang from being hungry. A gnawing emptiness brought on, no doubt, from having nothing left on her tummy. I shook my head and backed onto her road. The day was verdant green, azure blue, and outrageously orange from her shirt. It blasted my tired optic nerves. Appearing even brighter in the limited confines of my pickup cab.

We had passed only a couple of houses when her head bowed. She began to cough. Then, hold her mouth. Then, puff her face like a chipmunk carrying seeds.

“Rawww… rawww... rawwwww!”

Janis had covered herself, with just a slight spew of barf over the truck dashboard and onto the seat. She reached in the glovebox for napkins left over from Taco Bell.

“I’m good!” she cheered.

I frowned over the steering wheel. Predictably, traffic was heavier as we approached the junction with Route 45. There were commercial trucks, boats being towed, cars, vans, campers, bikes and four-wheelers everywhere. I sat at the stop sign until this parade of Sunday celebrants passed, on their journey to the sun.

Then, with tires squealing, I made a U-turn.

She was not happy. “You aren’t going to take us out to eat?”

I laughed while spinning the wheel. “No, of course not. You aren’t well.”

Her eyes nearly closed. “I am fine!”

I could visualize her slouched over the counter at our destination. Shivering and sorrowfully pleading her lack of gastric control. While the wait-staff screeched their disapproval. It made me go cold. Completely numb to the idea of postmodern worship with a sacred meal.

“Honey,” I whispered. “It’s okay. Why didn’t you tell me before? We don’t have to go out when you are sick. There’ll be another Sunday.”

She insisted on changing her clothes.

I rested my chin on the steering wheel. “This is your only day off. Relax. I’ll catch you again, later in the week. If you need anything, let me know...”

At last, her defiance vanished. “Okay,” she agreed.

Even on this traditional day of rest, I had errands to run. Mail to sort, at home. More documents to share with my family, regarding our mom who was at a nursing home in West Virginia. Even more correspondence for the post office, to go out on Monday morning. So I did not lack for chores.

Still, a few hours later, my appetite returned.

I sat in the living room of my sister, in Hambden. She and I discussed our fandom for ‘The Orrville’ with my younger nephew. He had begun to watch the program on Hulu after my recommendation. We all agreed that the show channeled a repurposed vibe of ‘Star Trek’ that made it appealing and worthwhile. I explained that my Sunday visit came after an unsuccessful attempt to visit services at a favorite restaurant-of-reverence in Austinburg. My intention was to pray reverently over a ‘Texas Cheesesteak Melt’ sandwich, topped with sausage gravy ordered as a side dish, and hash browns. An idea I conceived one week before.

A beam of sunlight peeked through their front window, as I confessed this unfulfilled desire. With my belly grumbling in protest for having been denied. Then, an epiphany shined down on the room. Electrifying the air and lifting my spirits.

“Hey!” I cheered. “There is a Waffle House nearby, in Concord... with sweet tea for the communion wine and buttermilk biscuits for the host. Would anyone like to celebrate with me at the evening service?”

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