Lost Keys, a Fire Truck, and 7 Seconds

I've been thinking about starting a blog for about a year now, and this morning I decided to do it! Keaton and I currently live fairly normal, low-key lives. Besides the everyday The Office-type, mundane humor, not much typically happens out of the routine. Yesterday, however, several abnormal incidents occurred--just enough oddity in a day to make me stop and think about things.

It all started when Keaton and I went to Walmart to buy paint. We had come from different locations, so we both brought our vehicles (his motorcycle and my Hyundai). Upon returning to the car (after quite an ordeal at the paint counter; we had to page them 3 times. No kidding. Keaton actually picked up the Walmart phone and attempted to make an announcement over the loudspeaker, but they've changed the code since he worked there. Go figure.), I discovered that I didn't have my keys. Sure enough, there they were on the floor of my thoroughly secured car, along with both our phones. I'm ashamed to say that, at this point, I was tired, hungry, and becoming increasingly irritable, and I expressed my frustration at Keaton, despite the fact that I was at fault for the situation. Keaton went inside and called the police station, which said that they didn't have the equipment to break into a car (bull). Next, Keaton called our insurance company and ascertained that we didn't have coverage for this type of thing, and that it would cost $45 and take one hour for GEICO to come unlock the car for us. Of course, Keaton was determined to find another option; no measures are too extreme when it comes to saving forty-five dollars.

Keep in mind that while all this phone drama is going on with Keaton, I'm in the parking lot guarding our precious newly-bought paint and looking like an idiot. Keaton returns and, after exploring our dwindling list of options, we decide to purchase a metal coat hanger to try and pick the lock. I reenter Walmart (and by now I'm starting to see all the same shoppers again and it's getting awkward) and head for the laundry aisle, only to discover that they no longer sell metal coat hangers. Another strike. 

One tough thing about moving to a new town is that, when accidents happen--like locking your keys in the car--you don't always know who to call. Keaton had one last idea, and it definitely proved to be the best yet. Not five minutes down the road from Walmart is the church we've been attending, and Keaton decided to ride his motorcycle over there and ask if anyone could help. I forgot to say that he still had his motorcycle key. We agreed that would probably be the best course of action, and so while Keaton headed off to find someone to rescue us, I continued to bravely guard the paint.

Sitting in a parking lot without a blessed thing to do, I was forced to think about the last few hours. I had been rude and impatient with my husband when it was MY negligence that initially put us in this frustrating situation. I knew that I was in the wrong, and I felt guilty. But there is a distinct difference between feeling guilty and changing. I knew what I needed was a change on the inside, or I would again be impatient with Keaton when he came back. So I prayed that God would change me and help me to love Keaton and to be thankful for him. After all, he was being so helpful!

As I sat on the curb holding my buggy, a woman passed me by and asked if I was okay. I briefly explained the situation to her, told her help was coming, and thanked her for asking. She smiled, rather awkwardly (for she was a strange woman) and then said, "Well it happens to the best of us." She continued walking, then turned once more and said, "To some of us more than others!" Yes, thank you, I'm thinking. She took a couple more steps toward her car, and then yelled, "That happened to me once and , ooooh, it was awful! But you know, we all have tough days. Just gotta get through 'em!" By now, this lady is pretty far away, so I yell back across the parking lot, "Yeah, it's frustrating, but things happen sometimes!" She turns from me, putting her groceries in her car. Then she looks at me once more and yells, "Yep, but you know, that's the key to life; just getting through it!" Her words stopped me in my thoughts. In the midst of my frustration, my discomfort, my routine, I stopped and thought about what she said. No, life is not about 'getting through.' We were created to have life and to have it abundantly (John 10:10). The woman was standing at her car, an awkward distance from me. I wrestled with whether to say something to her about abundant life in Christ. It would be awkward. Should I ask her a question? I would have to yell. She might be busy. She might shrug me off. I had about seven seconds to make the decision.

I once heard a fantastic talk entitled "The Seven-Second Window." The speaker, an avid football fan, explained that the outcome of a football game is determined by short plays, small moments of opportunity, averaging about seven seconds a play. Similarly, our lives are heavily impacted by the decisions we make in crucial 'seven-second windows.' Am I going to respond to my husband in anger? Am I going to choose to talk to my neighbor and build a relationship with her rather than rushing off to do my errands? Am I going to have time with the Lord, or am I going to press snooze once more? Small decisions impact the outcome of our lives. I had seven seconds to respond to the woman in the Walmart parking lot, and I was silent.

As soon as she drove off, I regretted my decision. This past weekend Keaton's cousin died unexpectedly, and since then Keaton and I have both been contemplative over the brevity of life. My heart broke for this woman, for the possibility that she may live every day of her life 'trying to get through it' when Christ has so much more to offer her. And there I was, hogging grace. I prayed for her and prayed that God would make me more burdened for the lost.

A few minutes later, my wonderful husband reappeared on his motorcycle, followed by another car, followed by a fire truck. Yes, a fire truck. Apparently, the church feeds the firemen every Wednesday night because the fire station is next door to the church. When Keaton showed up at the church, the firemen had just left, but it took only one call to get in touch with them. Liggand, a very kind man from the church, had been the one to make the call. So here come five men, determined to retrieve my incarcerated keys: Keaton, Liggand, and three firemen. In about five minutes, I had my keys in my hand and we were smothering the firemen with thank-yous (to which one of them replied, "It's okay, we weren't doin' anythan anywa---" and then he trailed off).

What an eventful hour and a half! As frustrating as moments of yesterday were, I am thankful for God permitting my absentmindedness. He stopped me short in order to reclaim my attention on the coming of His kingdom. Thank you, Father, for fighting harder for my sanctification than I do.