I gas up my truck on weekends. That’s because I carry a Toot-N-Totum card that awards ten cents off a gallon on Sundays, which is twice the weekday discount.
            Filling up on the Lord’s Day also re-enforces the fact that truck stops are holy places, at least according to St. Catherine of Siena. In The Dialogue, she compares the Church to a road house, a place where pilgrims stop to rest and restock their supplies on the way to Heaven.
           Sounds like a truck stop to me.
           My favorite Sunday filling station is located in Stinnett. I stop there after my early Mass on the way to Borger. The aisles are jammed with kids from St. Ann’s whose parents are rewarding them for not screaming during my sermon. If there weren’t so many, I’d offer to pay.
           I don’t know the names of the other folks. Generally, you don’t introduce yourself to strangers at a truck stop. But I’ll never forget the name tag of a cashier that caught my attention several years ago: “Hi, my name is Tatum. And I work at Toot-N-Totum.” (I couldn’t stop smiling the rest of the day!)
          Another thing I enjoy about truck stops is the expressions on the faces of the clientele. Have you ever tried to read the thoughts of people scanning shelves of candy bars or waiting for a Subway sandwich? Admittedly, the process of choosing peanut butter over chocolate or ketchup over mayo is a boring activity to observe, but the underlying weariness is not. The blank faces, the stooped-shoulders, the tattered clothes of folks who work hard for a living elicit prayers on my part for their behalf. I take pleasure in the fact that they have no idea that a stranger is concerned about the welfare of their souls.
           St. Catherine would be proud.
           I particularly enjoy filling my tank when a truck with a horse on a trailer pulls up. I’ll ask the cowboy how much he’s paying for a gallon of hay these days. Usually, he just shakes his head and mutters something about the lack of moisture driving up the price of fuel.
          Afterward, when I stand in line to pay for my gas and breakfast burrito, I’ll weigh whether or not to mention to the cashier that the men’s room needs a bit of attention. Usually, I just offer a friendly remark and try to make eye contact with the person behind the counter.
          The amiable exchange is momentary and fleeting, which is only appropriate. After all, this is a truck stop, a transitory place. A holy shrine to remind me that, like everyone else in this world, I’m just passing through.