Several days ago, as I left a meeting at our church, I desperately gave myself a personal TSA pat down. I was looking for my keys. They were not in my pockets. A quick search in the meeting room revealed nothing.
Suddenly I realized, I must have left them in the car. Frantically, I headed for the parking lot. My wife, Diane, has scolded me many times for leaving the keys in the ignition. My theory is the ignition is the best place not to lose them. Her theory is that the car will be stolen. As I burst through the doors of the church, I came to a terrifying conclusion. Her theory was right. The parking lot was empty.
I immediately called the police. I gave them my location, confessed that I had left my keys in the car, and that it had been stolen. Then I made the most difficult call of all. “Honey,” I stammered. I always call her “honey” in times like these. “I left my keys in the car, and it has been stolen.”
There was a period of silence on the other end of the line. I thought the call had been dropped, but then I heard Diane’s voice. “Ken,” she barked, “I dropped you off!” Now it was my time to be silent. Embarrassed, I said, “Well, come and get me.”
Diane retorted, “I will, as soon as I can convince this policeman I have not stolen your car.”