Devotionals

Grace at the Howard Johnson

by Stephen A. Peterson
10/21/25
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Grace at the Howard Johnson

©2025
by
Stephen A. Peterson

“In bygone generations He allowed all nations to walk in their own ways. Nevertheless, He did not leave Himself without a witness; for He did good, giving you rain from heaven and fruitful seasons, filling your hearts with food and gladness.”
—Acts 14:16–17 (NIV)

When I was a child, my mother and maternal grandmother taught me to pause before every meal. Whether it was a weekday breakfast of oatmeal and toast or Sunday dinner with roast chicken, green beans, and cornbread, the rule was the same: we would bow our heads and say grace.

It was never rushed. Grace was as natural as breathing, a rhythm that grounded our family. My grandmother’s hands, worn yet gentle, would fold together as she softly began, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts...” And after the final “Amen,” we would start our meal with quiet joy.

Even when we ate in public—cafeterias, dinners, or picnics in the park—we prayed. My mother and grandmother believed gratitude should never depend on place or audience. Yet, as a young man, I sometimes felt a flicker of embarrassment. When I was out with friends or dates, I wondered if others were watching, judging, or smirking. But I always whispered a silent prayer anyway.

That quiet conviction would be tested—and affirmed—in a most unexpected way.

It was late autumn in the Midwest, the kind of crisp, windswept weekend that smelled faintly of leaves and distant bonfires. My fraternity brothers and I had traveled from Indiana University to Madison, Wisconsin, for a football game between the Hoosiers and the Badgers. The air was thick with rivalry, but also with laughter, camaraderie, and the shared joy of college life.

After the game, as twilight fell over the highway, our car full of Sigma Pi brothers stopped for dinner. Hunger and excitement buzzed in the air. We found a Howard Johnson’s—a beacon of orange and turquoise against the darkening sky—and decided that it would do just fine.

In the parking lot, we struck up a conversation with two men who were also heading inside. One introduced himself as Mike, from Carbondale, Illinois; the other was Ron, from Gary, Indiana. Though they now lived in different cities, they had been lifelong friends since their days as mathematics majors at the University of Wisconsin–Madison. Every season, they met up to cheer for their Badgers and relive their student years.

Something about their friendship, the way they finished each other’s sentences and laughed easily—drew us in. Before long, our group of college boys and these two older alumni decided to share a table. Inside, the restaurant was crowded with travelers from both teams. Laughter echoed from every direction. The smell of fried chicken, burgers, and hot coffee filled the air.

Because there were too many of us for one table, we spread out across five tables of four. Strangers became companions in an instant—Hoosiers and Badgers, young and old, Black and White, Midwestern and Southern. There was no rivalry, only good food and good humor.

As plates began to arrive, bowls of chili, grilled cheese sandwiches, steaming mashed potatoes, and tall glasses of root beer, Mike suddenly stood up. He looked around at our mixed group of friends and strangers and raised his voice just enough for everyone to hear.

“Back home in Carbondale,” he said, “we have a tradition. When guests come to our house, no one eats before we give thanks. Win or lose, we always say grace. Would anyone here like to lead us in prayer?”

His words seemed to hang in the air. A few people smiled. Others exchanged glances, unsure how to respond in such a public place.

Then I heard my fraternity brothers—never ones to stay quiet—start chanting, “Pete does! Pete does! Come on, Pete!”

“Pete,” of course, was me.

Their teasing tone turned into encouragement, and before I could think twice, I stood up. My heart thumped as every table around us grew silent. Forks paused midair. Conversations hushed.

I looked out over the room—faces of every color and creed, strangers from different states gathered under the same roof, united for one brief moment—and I felt something greater than myself stir within me.

I bowed my head and began:

“Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts which we are about to receive and have received,
through Jesus Christ, Our Lord.”

There was a pause. Then, from every direction, voices rose in unison:

“AMEN!”

In that instant, the restaurant transformed. The tension dissolved. People smiled at one another across tables. Some laughed softly. One woman dabbed her eyes. An elderly couple at the next table clasped hands.

The moment wasn’t about religion or denomination. It was about gratitude—about acknowledging the simple miracle of being alive, being fed, and being together.

We ate with light hearts that night. Between bites, stories flowed freely. A truck driver from Missouri told tales of long winter roads; a retired teacher from Milwaukee shared memories of her late husband; my fraternity brothers joked with Ron about Big Ten rivalries.

The food was good, but the fellowship was better. Each plate—different in size, shape, and contents—seemed to represent the diversity around the tables—burgers beside pierogis, chili beside cornbread, laughter beside silence, all seasoned with kindness.

As I sat there, I realized that this spontaneous moment of prayer had done more than bless our meal, it had blessed us. People who had never met before shared something sacred that night: a common spirit of gratitude.

When we finally stood to leave, the waitress—her name tag read “Clara”—said softly, “That was beautiful. We don’t see that much anymore.”

Her words lingered with me all the way back to Indiana.

Years later, I’ve dined in many places—fine restaurants, military dining facilities, roadside diners—but that night at the Howard Johnson stands alone in my memory. It was a lesson in courage, humility, and faith.

That evening taught me never to be ashamed to express gratitude to God in public. What began as a simple prayer became a gathering of hearts—a living reminder that divine goodness can be revealed in the simplest of human interactions.

Each time I bow my head now, whether in a crowded café or alone at my kitchen table, I think back to that autumn night. I remember Mike’s voice, Ron’s smile, my brothers’ laughter, and the sound of dozens of strangers saying “Amen” together.

It reminds me that grace is not just a prayer we recite; it is a bridge we build—between people, between faiths, between generations.

It is the language of the heart, spoken aloud.

And from that memorable day to this very hour, I still say grace before and after every meal—no matter where I am.

Prayer

Lord, help me to thank You for my blessings and miracles out loud—
those You grant me every second, every minute, every hour, every day,
in every way, and everywhere.
Amen.