What happens in diners, stays in diners
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Sean of the South
Sean Dietrich
The little boy was with his mom, sitting in a truckstop diner. The boy was bald, wearing a loose T-shirt. A large bandage showed from beneath his collar.
Before the boy sat a massive meal. Bacon. Eggs. Huge glass of chocolate milk. Stack of pancakes bigger than a midsize SUV.
“It feels so weird, my stitches itch,” the boy said.
“Eat your pancakes,” said Mom.
Mom looked tired. Her hair looked like she had slept on it. Her clothes, crumpled.
“How many days was I in the hospital?” the boy asked.
The mother sighed. “Twenty-six. Now eat your pancakes.”
Everyone in the little restaurant was staring at mother and son. Especially the trucker in the booth behind them, who couldn’t help but eavesdrop.
Mother and son ate in silence for a while. The boy was inhaling his food while Mom nursed a mug in both hands, staring wistfully out the window.
“Did they cut all the cancer out?” the boy asked.
Mother was crying now. “Eat your pancakes.”
She tried to hide her face but was unsuccessful. Sometimes there is nowhere to hide one’s face.
The boy just watched his mother weep. “I’m worried about you, Mom.”
Mom laughed through snot and tears. “You’re worried about ME?”
He nodded.
Things went silent for a while.
That’s when something happened. The trucker from the nearby booth rose to his feet. He approached their table. He was every American truck driver you’ve ever seen. Powerfully built, slightly round in the middle, a ring of keys on his belt, and scuffed boots.
The man stood before their table, wearing a meek expression, hat in hand. The man said he couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. And, well, the man was wondering, would it be okay if he prayed for the boy, ma’am?
Truthfully, Mom was a little weirded out by this request. After all, people HAD been praying for the boy back home. Friends and family had been praying around the clock, actually.
Then again, one more prayer couldn’t hurt.
“Thank you,” said Mom. “We’d be honored.”
Mom and boy rose to their feet, per the man’s request. Whereupon the man placed both hands on the boy’s head. And as the man prayed aloud, others in the restaurant stopped eating and joined the circle.
First, a waitress. Then a few guys from the bar. Then more customers. A dishwasher. A cook. Within moments, the boy was standing at the center of a mass of hands, all resting upon his weary body.
The prayer was simple. The trucker prayed the boy would be healed. After his prayer, others in the circle took turns praying. Many prayers were spoken. Tears were shed by perfect strangers.
When mother and child left the highway café that night, the boy had no idea what had just happened to him.
Forty-three years later, the boy emailed me to say that he still doesn’t know what happened. But every day he’s getting closer to figuring it out.
Eat your pancakes.
