That's what you do if you're from Jersey. You make a big

Hear, O seeker of wisdom, the words of Ramy Youssef, who gave voice to the spirit of a people when he said: “That’s what you do if you’re from Jersey. You make a big decision at a diner at 3 in the morning.” Though spoken in jest and memory, this utterance carries within it a truth that echoes through the ages: that the great turns of our lives do not always unfold in marble halls or beneath golden ceilings, but in the humble places where the heart feels safe, where the soul breathes freely, and where the stillness of the night births clarity.

The ancients knew this pattern well. For was it not under the star-filled sky of Troas that the Apostle Paul dreamed a vision that would guide his steps into Europe? Was it not in a quiet garden at night that the philosopher Plotinus conceived thoughts that still guide seekers of truth? So too the diner, lit in neon and filled with the hum of late-night wanderers, becomes in modern times the sacred grove of decision. It is here, at 3 in the morning, that distractions are few, pretenses are shed, and souls dare to speak their unguarded truth.

The diner itself is more than a place of food. It is the temple of the ordinary, a house open to all, where the rich and the poor, the weary and the restless, sit shoulder to shoulder. Within its booths, lives intersect. Coffee is poured endlessly, and time stretches thin. In this liminal hour, when the world sleeps, the diner becomes the stage where friends confess, lovers reconcile, and wanderers chart the course of destiny. This is the meaning of Ramy’s words: that in Jersey—and indeed in all places—there are sacred hours where the ordinary becomes eternal.

Consider, then, a tale from history: in 1953, two young men, Watson and Crick, wrestled with the mystery of the double helix. Though their discovery was forged in the halls of science, it was often in long nights of conversation—in pubs, in cafés, in the quiet hours—that their ideas crystallized. They did not find revelation only at the laboratory bench, but also in the shared communion of talk and thought, when the mind is weary enough to abandon vanity and the soul is raw enough to grasp truth. So too, the youth of Jersey find their revelations in the booths of diners, amidst plates of eggs and toast.

The big decision made at 3 in the morning is not merely about life’s outward course. It is symbolic of the courage to face oneself when the noise of the world has died away. At that hour, beneath fluorescent light and against the backdrop of silence, one sees more clearly: friendships laid bare, ambitions revealed, fears confessed. Such decisions endure because they are spoken not in haste or vanity, but in the honesty that comes when night strips away all masks.

Yet let us not be deceived—this teaching is not confined to New Jersey, nor to diners alone. The lesson lies deeper: every person must find their place of truth, their hour of awakening, their circle of confidants with whom they may dare to decide. It may be a park bench at dusk, a kitchen table at midnight, or a long walk beneath winter stars. The sacredness lies not in the place, but in the openness of the soul and the presence of kindred spirits.

So, O listener, learn this: do not wait for grand temples or ceremonies to shape your fate. Seek your own diner at 3 in the morning, where your heart is unguarded and your voice is true. Cultivate companions with whom you may share these moments, and when the hour comes, do not shrink from the big decisions that call you forward. For destiny does not always roar—it whispers in late-night laughter, in weary eyes over coffee, in the sacred ordinary where eternity hides.

And thus, remember: the world is full of places where the divine touches the mundane. The wise man does not scorn the diner, nor the lateness of the hour. He knows that truth may descend at any moment, and that to seize it requires only courage, honesty, and presence. Therefore, walk boldly into your nights, and be ready—for your greatest decision may yet come beneath flickering lights and the comfort of shared bread.