Dear Wawa,
A Wawa is being born on the right side of the road on the way to church. It hasn’t opened yet, but it’s coming. I pass it every Sunday morning, a half-formed cathedral of convenience, just sitting there humming with potential breakfast and future compromise. The siding is finished. The pumps are standing at attention. The windows are dark, but they watch me as I drive by. I nod. They nod back.
It is too well placed. Right side of the road. Right when I’m thinking about coffee, about something warm and handheld, about the simple joy of eating tater tots before worship. This is not just a store. It is a perfectly calibrated interruption. I don’t know if this counts as a trial or a gift, but either way, I have already rehearsed my failure.
The Wawa isn’t open yet, but it’s already winning. I see myself pulling in. I see the whole thing. I go in for one thing. I come out with three. Maybe four. A sizzli. A cold brew. A muffin I didn’t need but now feel deeply connected to. I sit in the car with the engine running and the windows down, watching other people stream past on their way to church, unaware that I am already tasting the prelude to grace.
I tell myself I will resist. I will drive past it with resolve. I will keep my focus on the sacred. And then I imagine the touchscreen interface lighting up beneath my finger like a stained-glass window of processed joy. I imagine the quiet of that early morning sanctuary, the soft shuffle of others who gave in before me. I imagine the first bite. My resolve falters right there in the driveway.
Each week, I get a little slower, a little closer, a little more prepared to swing in and embrace whatever this Wawa becomes. I don’t even want to fight it. When it opens, I will be ready. Some people prepare for church by reviewing their notes or sitting in quiet meditation. I will prepare with a croissant sandwich and a prayer that the line moves quickly.
I will try to resist. And I will fail most of the time. Quietly. Joyfully. On the right side of the road.
Yours,
James