Occasionally, you get handed the Special Waffle—rectangular pieces of brie topped with thin, crescent-moon slices of Granny Smith apples, drizzled with honey and resting on a modest, square-shaped buttermilk waffle.
Without any birthright for such things.
Without paying for such things.
Without having ordered it or even wanted it.
Without deserving it or working for it—not to mention, working harder and harder for it.
Not because Fortune capriciously smiles or frowns.
Not because, out of the metaphysical chaos, an undefinable, warm, fuzzy universe has this desire to give.
Not because the karmic is swirling around, easing hearts and minds by looking for some golden opportunity to reward you for something previously done.
Instead, you get handed the Special Waffle because, well, the barista accidentally made an extra.
But also because she decided—in a monumental instant—to not throw it away.
Because, for whatever reason, she decided to come out from behind the counter—to go beyond the usual encounter.
Because, however random or intentional, she began her walkabout in the section where I happened to be sitting at that particular time on that specific day.
Because two people—each with no waffle—had already declined.
Because, when she came to my table, she noticed that I too had no waffle.
Because—and perhaps without her fully knowing it—she had been given this peculiar power to give away precisely what I was hungry for.
Quite honestly, I don’t think it takes some grand ethical or moral ideal.
You don’t need a political or ideological persuasion.
And this may rub a few of my friends the wrong way: I don’t know if a person must find religion or even have faith, per se.
I certainly know this: You don’t need a damn algorithm or Big Data to determine the meaning of the Special Waffle.
The waffle in the story—in every story perhaps—is the least special thing we hold in our hands.