Rocket City Diner

Doris was in love with the deep South locale, but all I could think was, “Oh my God, Alabama! The place right under Saudi Arabia on the list of places I promised myself I’d never go in my life!” Yet, here we were saying “Yes!” to this ministry in Huntsville, after looking for churches all over the country for practically a year. Why was I doing this to myself? Only because I’d promised Doris, who was 58 and anxious. No degree. No powerhouse resume. She felt, at 43, with my relative youth, graduate degrees and a “show biz” background to boot, I was insurance. Me? I hated praying in public. Doris had been Class Chaplain. We’d partner up. What a concept! She’d do the praying, I’d do the preaching. Two ministers for the price of one. Who could resist us? Such a deal!

We lasted seven months in that shaky set up. I won’t bore you with the sordid details. Maybe some other time…Ultimately, I left the church in her highly capable and codependent hands, and boogied back to where we had begun–Cue the music: “Goin’ (back) to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come; They’ve got some crazy little women there…” and “I’m gonna be me one!”

I recall the afternoon, sitting in the Rocket City Diner with my sixteen year old son Dana, both of us feeling not a little frustration and a whole lot of disappointment for different reasons, deciding to leave the church to Doris, and the state to anyone who wanted it. Definitively! We’d been there seven months. Now we watched the waitresses bustle, the other patrons talking, laughing, and chattering, providing stark contrast to our somber mood. But we were there for Comfort food–always the perfect “go-to” antidote for all anxieties–so we ordered with customary gusto, and awaited those crispy golden fries–not too greasy, just enough to catch the salt and the sweet, spicy, tomato…y ketchup; the hearty, meaty burgers sporting melted, creamy cheddar, those thick and milky, candy bar chocolate shakes.

I still feel the closeness of our earnest talk–me, feeling that always cringe-worthy guilt for causing my son yet another inconveniently timed move, interrupting his golden high school years, and for what? My pipe dreams? God! I’d given up show business for a life more stable in which to raise my darling boy, and now? Wow! Who would have thought being in ministry would be akin to joining the circus! My son’s loving and supportive face, and the touch of fingertips across the cool Formica table top backed up his clear, “Whatever you want to do, Mom. It’ll be okay.” We slurped to the grand finish of that magnificent meal with new resolve, removed ourselves from the plush and cushy vinyl booth, and turned our eyes to another new future, relief upon us like refreshing rain. “Let’s get on with it!”

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