By S. M. Ulbrich
Nonfiction: Trust in Life’s Flows
Picture me, a frazzled freelance graphic designer with a Dr. Pepper addiction and a car older than half the cast of Friends, stranded in a rural Illinois gas station parking lot in the summer of 2018.
My keys had vanished like they’d joined the witness protection program, my phone was wheezing at 8% battery, and my life was unraveling faster than a cheap Christmas sweater.
This wasn’t just a lost-key fiasco; it was God testing my patience, and I was flunking spectacularly.
I took another second to ponder, and again came up with the same predicament: my keys had vanished, my phone was at 8% battery, and my life was spiraling faster than a bad Yelp review.
This wasn’t just a lost-key situation; it was a cosmic prank, and I was the punchline.
The day had kicked off with big plans. I was on a solo road trip to St. Louis to visit a friend, trying to outrun a year that had dumped more lemons on me than a lemonade stand at a county fair.
My freelance gigs were as dry as a desert, my dog was racking up vet bills like he was auditioning for Lifestyles of the Rich and Furry, and my midlife crisis was practically begging for its own talk show.
So, I’d tossed my stuff into my ’99 Corolla—lovingly dubbed “Rusty”—cranked up some Springsteen, and hit the road.
My keys? I vaguely remembered chucking them onto the passenger seat before strutting into a gas station that looked like it hadn’t seen a remodel since disco was king.
This gas station was a monument to despair: one creaky pump, a flickering neon sign, and a clerk who eyed me like I was plotting to swipe his stash of stale Ding Dongs.
I grabbed a soda that tasted like burnt gym socks and a breakfast burrito solid enough to use as a paperweight.
When I got back to Rusty, I realized my keys had pulled a disappearing act.
I patted my pockets like a frantic TSA agent, dumped my bag onto the pavement (farewell, my emergency granola bar), and retraced my steps through the store, crawling under a beef jerky display.
At the same time, the clerk muttered something about “city slickers.”
No keys.
My phone was down to 6%, and I was one bad choice away from hitchhiking with a trucker dude named Cletus.
Panic hit like a freight train. I was 200 miles from home, in a town so tiny its welcome sign just said, “Blink and you’re already gone.”
The nearest locksmith was an hour away, and my friend in St. Louis, reached via a crackly call, offered advice as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
“Maybe they’re in the grass?” she said. I scoured the parking lot on hands and knees, looking like I was filming a low-budget remake of The Blair Witch Project.
A trucker puffing a cigarette took pity and offered wisdom: “Kid, if your keys don’t wanna be found, you’re chasin’ a ghost in flip flops.”
I nodded, pretending I got it, while mentally drafting my tombstone: “Here Lies a Fool, Defeated by Car Keys.”
Next, I started drafting my obituary: “Local Woman Perishes in Cornfield, Death by Stupidity.”
With my phone at 3% and my dignity in the negatives, I slumped onto the curb and did what any self-respecting Christian does in a pinch: I prayed.
Hard.
My family’s always been big on faith—Mom’s favorite saying is, “God’s got a plan, but you’ve gotta show up for it.”
So, I whispered, “Lord, I’m not asking for a parting of the Red Sea. Just my keys. Please.”
I promised to skip gas station burritos for life—a vow I hoped God would take seriously.
Then, like an answer to prayer, a pickup truck that looked like it had survived three apocalypses and a demolition derby rattled into the lot.
Out hopped Marla, a local potter in denim overalls and a tie-dye bandana, grinning like she’d just won a staring contest with an angel.
“You look like you lost your faith and your car keys,” she said, sizing me up like I was a lost sheep in a Bible parable.
I spilled my sob story, expecting a shrug. Instead, Marla’s eyes lit up like she’d been handed a divine mission.
“Oh, honey, this is God’s way of slowin’ you down,” she said, twirling a braid like she was auditioning for Sister Act. “Let’s find those keys.”
Before I could ask if she had a theology degree, she was circling Rusty, humming what sounded like “Amazing Grace” mixed with a polka. I half-expected her to start speaking in tongues.
Marla’s approach was less CSI and more Touched by an Angel. She didn’t check the ground or peek inside the car.
Instead, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “The keys are where God put ‘em. We just gotta trust His plan.”
I bit back a laugh, but her conviction was contagious. She asked when I last saw the keys, so I mumbled about chucking them onto the passenger seat.
“Hallelujah!” she shouted, startling a stray cat. “They’re not lost—they’re waiting. Look again, but this time, have faith.”
Faith?
I had faith I was about to star in a Lifetime movie called Stranded in Nowheresville. But with my phone at 1%, I humored her.
I pressed my face against Rusty’s window, fully expecting to see nothing but my own bad life choices staring back.
I was expecting zilch, but—praise the Lord—there were my keys, glinting under a crumpled map like they were posing for a sermon illustration.
I turned to Marla, ready to explain that “locked car” means “checkmate,” but she was already waving me toward the trunk.
“God doesn’t lock doors without leavin’ a window open,” she said, which sounded like a bumper sticker from a church bake sale.
Sure enough, in my burrito-fueled haze, I’d left the trunk unlocked. I popped it open, climbed through like a discount Moses, and grabbed the keys, emerging to Marla’s triumphant whoop.
“Told ya! God’s got your back!” she crowed, as if she’d just brokered a deal with the Almighty.
I offered to buy her coffee, but she waved me off. “Just keep the faith, kid. And don’t chuck your keys like you’re playin’ dodgeball.”
She rattled off in her truck, leaving me in a cloud of dust and holy gratitude.
I started seeing my life’s chaos—freelance flops, vet bills, all of it—as less of a tragedy and more of a sitcom.
Driving away, keys in hand, I couldn’t stop laughing. God had used a kooky potter to remind me He’s in the details—even the dumb ones.
The freelance gigs picked up, my dog defied the odds by outsmarting his prognosis, and I began treating setbacks like plot twists in a comedy I was starring in as part of His comedy script.
Marla, whether she was a prophet, a mystic, or just a gloriously weird saint, taught me that sometimes the universe hides your keys just to make you laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Better still, God hides your keys to make you chuckle at His perfect timing.
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© 2025, Shirley Ulbrich, S. M. Ulbrich, Pages Alight. All rights reserved. On republishing this post you must provide link to original post.
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