he terminal gate is a difficult place to enjoy a meal. I am hunched precariously over a Chicago-style hot dog while seated across an aisle (with barely more legroom than the plane itself) from a trio of rowdy boys tearing through a bag of chips, kicking their legs, and generally making a raucous mess. I pause for a moment and close my eyes to say a silent grace. One of them must have noticed, because he grabs his younger brothers for their attention.

"We forgot!" he exclaims urgently. "Forgot what?" the littlest says. "We forgot to pray for our food," the eldest replies, looking suddenly concerned for the morals of his family.

"Thank you Lord for our food!" cries the youngest. It doesn't matter at all that at this point in his relatively new life, it is probably rote and meaningless, because it means something to me. We are all now people who pray over our food. And a duty having thus been satisfied, the whirl of the airport spins on.