 One morning, a while back, I was sitting in a hotel room down in Atlanta. For the life of me I can’t remember why I was there, but I do remember the moment when I began to sense that my cholesterol was running a bit low. It also hit me about the same time that I was beginning to feel a little like the Tin Man right before he ran out of machine oil. Everything creaked and cracked and hurt like the Devil. John Denver wrote in one of his songs that ‘time whispers when it’s cold.’ That may have been true for him, but time was cutting loose in full voice this morning letting me know that the foolishness of my younger days was catching up with me in a hurry.
When this happens, as it often does, I usually search around for a suitable remedy to the problem. On this particular morning I was in luck, for less than a half a mile down the road rested none other than that icon of the American way of life, and eating I might add: The Waffle House. I figured I could increase my cholesterol and grease my joints at the same time, so I took a walk on the wild side and braved the mean streets of Atlanta. I headed for that dirty yellow sign with the big black letters. I walked in, received the mandatory “How are you this morning?” from a face that showed no interest whatsoever, sat down and ordered two over well, with grits and bacon. Along with that I ordered a cup of the most consistently bad coffee on the planet. I was in Paradise. I just love Waffle House. If you like people and good food, and aren't particular about who you hang around with or how your food is prepared, then Waffle House is the place for you. I have always contended that had the stable been located in Waycross, Georgia instead of Bethlehem and had Jesus been raised in the Southern U.S. instead of the Middle East, Waffle House would have been one of His favorite haunts. You see, Christ loved the folks, and He wasn't particular about who He hung around with; and nobody can resist two over well, with grits and bacon. Now if you really want to have some fun, find a Waffle House near an airport or an interstate. Not an even numbered interstate mind you, but an odd numbered one, say I95; one that heads south to north, or north to south, if you've got good sense. Once you've settled in and ordered, all you have to do is just sit and wait. You’re fishing. What you’re fishing for is an accent that leaves no doubt whatsoever that whoever the owner of that accent might be; ‘ain’t from ‘round chere.’ New York will do in a pinch, but second only to New Hampshire, Massachusetts wears the crown; a Boston, Massachusetts accent in particular. Now once your quarry has been located and hopefully settled into the booth next to yours, pray with all your might for two things. First of all pray that your new friends have never enjoyed the culinary delights of grits. Secondly pray they have enough courage and curiosity to take a leap of faith and order two over well, with grits and bacon. As a side note also pray that there is no ketchup within a twenty-five mile radius of your location; because if there is, just as sure as God made little green apples, they’ll cover their grits with it and ruin all the fun. Once the waitress brings their order and answers all of their questions, and there will be many; and after they have checked with Google to see what side effects grit ingestion might cause, all you have to do is sit still and listen and try to maintain your composure. I promise you, you will have the time of your life. I considered trying to reconstruct some of the conversations I have heard over the years from adjacent booths, but try as I might I simply could not do them justice. I suppose you just have to be there. I know this though: when listening to your neighbors discuss the attributes of grits, be cautious while drinking your coffee. Consistently bad or not, that stuff burns like the dickens when an ill-timed chuckle sends it upstream. So what deep sociological or inspired theological lesson can be found in this story? None whatsoever, that I can see. I suppose I could talk about the strength of grits as opposed to the weakness of a grit, but that might come across as a little contrived. The truth is, I figured we could all use a little break. Between the angst on the news, the tension in our denomination, and life in general, a story about nothing in particular with no deep and lasting meaning sounded kind of appealing to me. So rest your mind, calm your heart, enjoy your grits and know that God’s got this, whatever this might be. Love, Pastor Tony
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 When I was just a kid, about seven or eight years old as I recall, my parents decided to take the whole family on a vacation out to the Wild West. My Mom and Dad sat down with a brand new Rand McNally road map of the entire United States and a red marker to trace out the adventure of a lifetime. We were going to see Carlsbad Caverns, Brice Canyon, the Painted Desert, the Grand Canyon, the Grand Tetons, the Badlands; and the apex of our trip was to be a week of camping in Yellowstone National Park.
The only problem was that the old car we had was only fit for four, not five and since Janie, my little sister, was new on the scene Dad had to go off and buy a brand spanking new 1966 Rambler Ambassador station wagon; the first car in my family to have air conditioning. We were a proud lot. Another problem lay in the fact that to make this happen we were going to have to camp, motels were just too expensive. So one sunny Saturday afternoon we all loaded up in the brand new Rambler and headed to Northeast Columbia and the Holiday Camper store. We bought a little pop up camper, with just enough room for five, a few supplies and a whole host of memories. We hitched it up and were ready to go. I have lots of stories that come from this trip, and I will probably share a few of them with you in due time, but right now let me tell you about a moment in time when my father and superman were one and the same. After a marvelous week of experiencing the awesome beauty of some of natures true wonders, we arrived at Yellowstone National Park. We took a few of the obligatory tours, but my father, being an outdoorsman of sorts, preferred to do his own thing. He brought Mike, my brother, and me along as bait. We saw bears, and moose and elk. We forded streams, climbed trees, fished for trout and cooked them over an open flame. It was truly a little boy’s dream come true. Well, one night after dark and after Mom had scooted us kids all off to bed, a park ranger came to the campsite and struck up a conversation with my father. Dad was sitting outside of the camper all by himself enjoying a cup of coffee and the quiet of the evening. Now the walls of the camper were canvas, and since I was practicing my eavesdropping skills, I heard the ranger when he told Dad that it might be a good idea for him to move inside the camper. Naturally Dad, being curious, asked why and the ranger said that there was a grizzly bear roaming the campground; and he was a big one and a little mean, so they were taking some precautions. My Dad being an outdoorsman and a man’s man didn't budge. He wasn't going to let some phantom bear interfere with his quiet time. He was the master of his domain. Seeing that Dad was going to hold fast to his position, the ranger got up to leave and told him to just keep an eye out and be careful. Dad said he sure would and then he casually asked the ranger where he thought this particular bear might be. Well, to the best of my recollection the ranger pointed a little to the right of the camper and told Dad that the bear was off in that direction about, oh, fifty feet or so. It was at that moment in time, when my father and superman became one, because without the aid of a jet pack, propeller or even a phone booth my father flew. I can still feel the camper quake. I can still hear the crashing sound as my father, a normally sane and measured human being, leapt with the agility of a jungle cat from his chair to the inside of that little camper. It was truly an impressive sight. From a seated position he covered that considerable distance and never once touched the ground. The ranger stared after him fascinated for a moment, but he eventually came to himself and headed off once again to warn other folks of the imminent danger. His warnings however stood in stark contrast to the somewhat derisive, cackling laughter issuing from our camper and filling the night air. My mother was beside herself with joy; an uproarious joy that she saved only for special occasions, and my father making a fool of himself was pretty special in her estimation. Prudence dictated that we kids feign sleep, but there were delighted grins all around. In the end, my father, now deflated and somewhat ashamed, slunk off to bed to dream of slaying dragons and of better days to come. 1 Peter 5:8-9a Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. 9 Resist him, standing firm in the faith, …. NIV But remember to avoid him as much as possible and to never let pride trap you in his grasp. There is a time to run! Love, Pastor Tony |
AuthorTony Rowell Archives
December 2024
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