Every Friday morning between 7:30 and 8:00 a.m. I meet my Dad for breakfast at a drugstore/café called the Avalon Diner, a short drive from my house. Unless one of us is out of town or under the weather, it’s a standing deal. We only call if we can’t make it – not to be sure the other one is coming.

We haven’t always met at the Avalon. For a while we convened at a diner closer to my old apartment, then at a trendier place that dad endured but never really liked, near my former office. The place has shifted over the years, but the routine hasn’t. It’s become something reliable I can count on.

I can’t remember when we started the Friday breakfast thing – or when it became so much of a routine that we could take it for granted the other one would be there without confirming. I feel safe in saying it’s been at least 15 years…maybe even longer. For the last year or so – when she can crawl out of bed that early – my oldest niece has taken to joining us. She attends a university barely a mile from our spot – and like any college student, appreciates a meal she doesn’t have to pay for. (I like to think the company compels her occasionally, too.)

At the Avalon, the coffee is smooth and hot. Cassie usually takes care of our table – a job her apron says she’s been doing since I was eight. When Cassie’s out, it’s Sarah, another long-time employee. On the rare occasions when I go to the Avalon alone, one or the other of them will inevitably ask, “Where’s Mac?” They’ve gotten used to the routine, too.

I guess by now we’ve had hundreds upon hundreds of Friday morning breakfasts. I’ve gotten business advice, heard stories about dad’s Navy years and about relatives I can barely remember…talked politics and faith and family and finances. We’ve agreed and disagreed, both agreeably and disagreeably. I can’t honestly remember the details of too many of those conversations, but I remember their tenor. It’s comfortable, like the green vinyl booth we slide into, right hand side, closest to the kitchen. And I can count on one hand the times I’ve beat him there.

I like coming up the sidewalk, looking in the glass front of the Avalon, and seeing the top of my dad’s head (grayer and with less hair than when we started our routine) bent over the paper, or his Daytimer®. I like that someone’s waiting there without me having to ask or arrange it. And I like how his presence reminds me of the simple goodness of my other Father’s faithfulness – the One who always waits for me.

“Know therefore that the LORD your God, He is God, the faithful God, who keeps His covenant and His lovingkindness to a thousandth generation with those who love Him and keep His commandments…” (Deuteronomy 7:9, NASB)

© Leigh McLeroy 2005