The Hand That Robs the Sitter

I think my heart has slowed enough to tell this story.

After dinner with Aaron’s fellow first-year seminarians on Tuesday night, we had to swing by the bank because I wasn’t sure I had enough cash at home to pay the babysitter. Aaron pulled into a parking space and I walked up to the drive-up ATM.

A long lightning bolt split the ominously dark sky. Dun dun dunnn. (I should have heeded the sign.)

The ATM screen didn’t seem to be on and the card slot seemed to be closed, but I’d never used this ATM before so I wasn’t sure if I was just missing something. Did you have to drive up to wake it up or something? Feeling kind of dumb, I said out loud, “Hello?” and stuck my card at the closed slot.

And so help me God . . .

I swear to you . . .

I saw . . .

FINGERS REACHING OUT OF THE ATM.

Wiggling at me. Trying to snatch my card. Making room to stick out a skinny little pistol and rob me of my babysitter money or perhaps my very soul. Who knows what evil intentions these mysterious fingers clutched in their unseen palm! All I know is that there should not be FINGERS reaching out of an ATM. EVER. But especially at dusk as a thunderstorm bears down on an innocent young mother.

Oh, and I now know that I can dart around a corner away from an ATM at approximately the same speed as an ominous bolt of lightning travels.

The sitter got the grocery change.