So, last week I locked my husband in the car.

I didn’t mean to do it, mind you. It was an accident; one I didn’t even know had happened.

We were meeting friends for dinner. When we arrived at the restaurant my husband told me to go ahead inside while he tried to find the directions to reset the car clock which was an hour slow.

Through force of habit I must have locked the car with my remote on the way into the restaurant. Once inside, I was seated at a quiet table in the back and quickly met by the waiter.

"Would you care for a drink?" he asked, seeing me eyeing up the wine and beverages list.

 "That would be great. I’ll have a berry martini."

The minutes ticked by as I sipped my drink and began to relax. I had time to review the menu thoroughly, make a mental note of what I would like to order and just relish the opportunity to sit and let the stresses of the day melt away.

As I neared the last of my martini, I began to wonder how much time had actually passed since I sat down and what had happened to my husband.

"Just how long does it take to set a clock anyway?" I grumbled to myself, now perturbed at his insistence on fixing the problem right that minute. It was also strange that our friends had not yet arrived because they were always on time.

I glanced over at the reception desk yet again and finally saw my friend coming toward me. He was laughing, so I smiled back, thinking how nice it was that he was already enjoying our evening together and it hadn’t even started. But for him it had – in the parking lot.

Before reaching the table he said loudly, "Mary, you locked Frank in the car."

Even after a few seconds that didn’t sink in.

"What?" I replied, looking confused.

"You locked your husband in the car. He can’t get out."

Now the image of a frantic Frank trying to push every button in the car to open the doors was coming into focus. "You can’t be serious!" I tried to supress a laugh.

But he was serious. The locks wouldn’t release from inside the car and my husband had been stuck there the whole time I was inside enjoying myself. He had tried calling me on my cell phone only to hear it ringing on the seat next to him. Then he called our friends, who, fortunately, had just pulled into the parking lot. My husband had to talk to them through closed windows and made it clear he was just seconds from putting his foot through one of those windows to get out. It’s amazing how hot a car can get when it’s a balmy 65 degrees outside.

Before I could get my keys out of my pocket, my husband appeared in the restaurant, quite red and rumpled.

"So, how did you escape?" I asked, trying not to laugh. The martini didn't help matters much.

He wasn’t amused. "Didn’t you use the remote from in here? The locks just opened by themselves and I got out."

I assured him I didn’t assist in his escape and most assuredly the remote would not work from inside the restaurant even if I had tried to use it. He decided to chalk it up to an electrical short. I preferred to think of it as a holy mystery.

As I sat back and watched the moments unfold at our table amid laughter and listening; the sharing of food and of stories, the mystery became almost tangible; the reaching out from one to the other that began so obviously when locked in a car, continued in a more profound way across the table between friends and spouses; God in communion with us and us with each.

Sometimes the mystery is not so mysterious if we let the day drop away and just pay attention to the moments.

Of course, a berry martini doesn’t hurt.