Sunday Breakfast with the Temps

I am enjoying breakfast in one of our countries finest two star hotels.   We are all, temporarily, friends and family, eating alone together.

I am watching LifeChurch online and that is a wonder all by itself.

But I am stunned by the parade through our tiny breakfast room.

He and she are both tower over six feet and wear similar flannels and themed T-shirts, hers against breast cancer, his for the Thunder.  They both distract and reward their child with food.  They both are deferential and confident.

The weekend volleyball warrior has brought her own cheering squad of six sisters, mom and dad and a delayed hope.  Her exuberance and budding beauty shine past the grill of perfecting teeth.  Mom and Dad’s hope was finally rewarded, and their little son basks in the attention of one Mom and seven spares.  He is already spoiled, and firm in his belief that he is the center of the universe.

Furtive, with her hair up, just the tips of the red showing, matching her running shorts and shoes if they were not dirty.  She grills one waffle and downs it with two packets of syrup while grilling a second.  She eats like a little animal, her eyes darting toward the open door, certain that something bigger lurks nearby to take her breakfast.  As soon as her third waffle is beeping, ready for her, she pulls it off, adds more packets of syrup and peanut butter, and slips out of the room headed down the hallway where either a room or a waiting car.  She did not drink nor take anything to drink.

She reads USA Today, two days old on a Sunday, and nibbles at a bagel, awaiting the man aof all these years whose toast and coffee are ready when he enters.

The hostess enters all in white and talks as if we are old friends.  I have been here four times on business this year.

I am simply overcome, awash in the stories flowing around my own short story story some days, and stunned.  We are used to living with hundreds and thousands of lives flowing right next to us, and that miracle, of all miracles, is what Muslim extremists want to kill.  IT could easily be all of us furtively eating and rushing back to our rooms with the balance of breakfast.

I finish my apple juice, mildly unhappy that they were out of orange juice and head to the room to pack up and load up the truck to head back into the field.