“Locks are for honest people.”
Ever heard that quote?
As a kid, it puzzled me, much like the combination I had to learn every school year to get into my locker.
Last night, Fabio made a guest appearance on a cable news show revealing how very recently his and other celebrities’ homes had been broken into and property pilfered.
This month my hubby and I took in one of our cars for an oil change and we brought back an additional SUV with only one key.
A visit to a local locksmith yielded two useless pieces of metal.
Calls to hardware stores and other smith agents netted zero results.
Finally, agreeing the solution involved divesting our bank account, we returned to the dealership where I did some stealing of my own:
“Just who is this Ward we’re pulling for?” I asked the receptionist pointing to the large sign overhead.
Her wide grin proved worth the snatching.
Later, raiding remembrances with my hubby extracted more.
Once after hearing a radio sermon on his way home from work he burst through the front door exclaiming:
“Did you know every time you look in the mirror your observing constant decay? Our bodies are undergoing continual entropy!”
All this proudly delivered like the best and most fascinating news e-v-u-r.
I’m pretty sure that if you could have seen my face, it would have registered shock and a dropped jaw. Crickets may or may not have been heard above me.
Sure enough, the next study of my image while washing my face and brushing my teeth revealed evidence of that robber of youth and vigor: time.
A gray eyelash, dark spots on my cheek and deepening creases on my chin and neck cheated me of joy and contentment.
Days after his imposing proclamation as we drove to local footpaths for a walk my hubby sighed.
“I miss running.”
“So do I.” I sighed back.
His head snapped so fast I feared whiplash.
“You’ve never liked running!”
“I used to run for miles and miles.” I beamed like a Chesire cat.
“On my horse!”
This gouged a grin.
“I like it when your eyes sparkle, you look especially beautiful.”
“What, for the state of decay I’m in?”
On another trek together beside the rolling Columbia River, feeling plundered again, I poured out my concerns to my hubby.
Our family is missing two precious people in a recent relational breakup, Tori, the dove egg orphan we’re incubating has yet to hatch, and chapter nine of my memoir in progress perplexes.
We talk about:
- John Ross from our own Washington state being the ninth NFL draft pick (of the first round!).
- My attending a local junior college observatory showing of Planet Nine. And the fact that Pluto will always be one to us.
- Guess how many goslings we counted in passing?
Upon returning to our vehicle, we discovered there is no key entry from the passenger side. As my hubby hurried to open the driver side door, I pulled the keyless entry mechanism from my pocket and opened all the doors.
“You’re fob-ulous!” My hubby sang out.
The short drive to the store to shop for groceries found me ruminating on the unusual occurrences involving the number nine and the Serenity Prayer written by American theologian Reinold Niebuhr.
“God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.”
Beyond grateful to my heavenly Father for unlocking the secret places of my heart and restoring hope, I whispered,