The grocery store was a total battlefield that day. Between the long lines, the crowded aisles, and the heat radiating off the asphalt, I felt like I had just run a marathon by the time I pushed my cart out into the parking lot. I was completely exhausted after shopping and could barely keep my eyes open as I navigated the rows of parked vehicles.
I spotted a familiar glint of silver near the back of the lot. Without a second thought, I yanked open the door and hopped into the passenger seat of a silver car, assuming my husband had moved the car to be closer to the exit. I didn’t even look over; I just let out a long sigh and leaned my head back.
“I’m so tired, just drive,” I groaned to my husband, expecting to hear the familiar sound of our engine turning over.
Instead, there was a heavy, confused silence. When the driver finally turned to look at me, the shock was electric. It wasn’t my husband at all, but an elderly priest staring back at me in total bewilderment. In that heart-stopping second, I realized with a jolt of horror that I was in the wrong silver Honda.
Mortified, I blessed myself instinctively, as if the sign of the cross could somehow undo the last thirty seconds of my life. My brain went into full survival mode. I didn’t even wait for the car to come to a stop as he began to slowly pull out of the space. I grabbed the door handle and practically rolled out of the moving car to escape my sin of accidental carjacking, landing on the pavement and scrambling away before the poor Father could even ask if I needed help.