Sunday Morning Tradition

Every Sunday, me and some friends go to a quaint little diner called KB's for breakfast. KB's resembles a bed and breakfast with its homey, bustling atmosphere. The parking lot bursts with minivans that carried big families, the motorcycle that bore a troubadour, the battered truck that brought the newly weds, and our cars which swept us from camp. We mount the stairs of the wraparound, flowering porch, open the door, and step onto the polished hardwood floor. Everything's buzzing and we have to dip and dodge around laden tables, children, and the teenage bus-boy. Up the stairs and through a door is one long lone table. It's much quieter in there and mellow jazz filters through the room. But it doesn't take long to the silence to be disrupted by our noisy crew. Orders for cinnamon swirl French toast, OJ, coffee, side orders of bacon, scrambled eggs, pancake stacks, and fluffy puff omelets begin to bury the table. I've never seen left overs once we've finished. Not a scrap of bacon, not a smear of syrup, not a drop of coffee dirties the dishes. We leave with comfortably tight bellies. Having been so pleasantly filled by KB's breakfast, we jump into the car, church-bound and ready to be filled by the Word.