Cribbed from a Facebook postA fistful of black letters flicker atop the pale yellow background. When they first built the place eleven letters burned a hole in the dark southern sky. But the strength has gone out of most of them from years of signaling weary, wayward souls towards a hot meal.
The sign is broken, but few care. Because they are broken too. What few letters still shine serve as a beacon, reminding all comers that there is a place, like God and grandmother’s house, where the door is always open.
You may find better food elsewhere, but you won’t find better food for the money. They have a menu, though I have never needed it.
Two eggs, over medium; bacon, hash browns covered, smothered, and covered; one waffle with butter and maple syrup; and a cup of black coffee. That has been my standing order for decades and there’s been no need to get any more ambitious than that.
When you sit down at the table or the bar you will likely be greeted by someone who calls you “honey,” or “sugar,” or “baby,” or sometimes “boss.” But you will be greeted, and usually with a smile. And by someone who knows what it means to work long and hard for very little.
Some of them are working their way through college. Some of them are single parents trying to pay the rent and keep the lights on at home. Some are ex-cons trying to hold down a job by wiping tables and desperately trying to believe the rumors of second chances.
Waffle House is at once mainstreet and back alley, cosmopolitan and parochial.
On any given day there might be a family of five seated near you with three small children scarfing down jellied toast and scrambled eggs. They’re here because the food is cheap and sometimes dad doesn’t want mom to have to cook after working twelve hours at the shirt factory.
There’s a trucker driver sitting by himself, now on his sixth cup of coffee. He’s flirting with the waitress. But he isn’t trying to pick up a date, he’s just trying to survive the loneliness of a life of endless mile markers and few trips home.
On one side of you will be three bikers and a war veteran swapping stories about close calls and near misses.
On the other side will be an elderly couple who come every Thursday night. They come just to hear the voices. Their own kids have long since stopped visiting, and they’ve already buried all of their other friends.
And then one Thursday night he will show up alone. A waitress will pour him a cup of coffee and lightly touch his shoulder. She knows she can do nothing about the empty chair, but she can at least keep his cup full for an hour or two.
At one table sits a group of college kids, drunk off their asses. Beside them is an addict wishing he could tell them to quit while they still can.
In the corner a Baptist preacher is pleading with a teary-eyed backslider over ham and buttered grits.
It doesn’t matter what you’ve done or where you’ve come from, you are welcome here. Straight-laced or strung out, drunk or sober or in that fuzzy place in between. In blue jeans, a business suit, or pajamas. No one is turned away.
Waffle House may not be a church, but I know several people who have met God there. And many of our churches could stand to learn a few things about open arms, hot meals, and second chances from this wild, wayside diner.