Grits

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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