I woke this morning to my mother, whom we fondly call Midge, knocking on my bedroom door.

“Birgitta, are you up yet?”

I rolled over sleepily, wondering how it could possibly be morning already. She kept knocking.

“Church starts at 10:30. We need to leave here by 10:20!”

I glanced at the clock: 9:45. Unable to speak this early, I dragged myself out of bed in annoyance, wondering why she continued to pound on the door instead of just opening it as she usually does when I’m at the cottage, where my alarm is somehow much less effective.

I yanked the door open to let her know I was awake, remembering that I’d locked it the night before to prevent Jack the dog from bashing his head against it in order to open it so he could come and go as he pleased.

Midge, already in her Sunday best, left my doorway upon seeing me vertical. I turned on some music to get ready, as I do every morning, and hurriedly rummaged through my messy pile of clothing, quickly selecting a dress to wear. After showering, I headed back to my room to find I couldn’t get the door open. Locked. Quickly noticing my dilemma, Midge looked up from the book she had been reading in her La-Z-Boy.

“Uh oh,” she said as she got up to offer assistance.

“How is this possible?” I said angrily as I jostled the doorknob. “I didn’t lock it!”

“That’s strange,” Midge replied. “Maybe we can get it open with a screwdriver.” She disappeared into her room and quickly returned with an array of sizes. We each repeatedly attempted to unscrew the lock, but the door wouldn’t budge. “Maybe we need to pound the lock in from the outside,” Midge suggested. “I have just the thing!” She pranced downstairs and came back with a tool from the basement. Again we both banged against the lock, even using a hammer, but it was all to no avail.

“What am I gonna do?” I whined. “I can’t go to church like this!” Remaining calm, Midge thought for a moment.

“I know,” she said. “I’ll go out on the roof and get in through the window.”

“What?!” I squawked, envisioning Midge slipping down the steep slant of the roof to the concrete 20 feet below. “No, Midge. If anything, I should go out there. Not you!” But she insisted.

“No, no, no, honey, I wouldn’t want you to fall. I can do this.” And with that she slipped off her shoes, hopped up on a chair, and began climbing out her bedroom window onto the roof.

“Midge!” I yelped as I stuck my head out the window behind her. “You should not do this!” But she had already scaled the slippery slope like a pro and was standing in front of the window to my bedroom, devising a way to remove the screen from the outside. “Oh gosh,” I muttered as I clutched my phone, ready to call 9-1-1 in case she should fall.

“I just need a little screwdriver to get this screen off!” She yelled back to me. “My dresser, top drawer!” I ran to her dresser for the screwdriver, wondering who I should call second, after 9-1-1.

“Here!” I shouted as I leaned out the window to hand it to her.

“Perfect,” she replied, taking the screwdriver, not the least bit worried. I watched in amazement as she popped off the screen within seconds and leapt through the window.

“Thank you, Midge,” I said gratefully after she had unlocked the door and I had reentered my bedroom. I resumed getting ready, realizing that after almost 21 years as her daughter, I never knew what a risk taker Midge was!

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Birgitta’s narration of our morning reminds me of John Lennon’s line, “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” This morning’s lock-out made us very late for church (we actually missed the whole service), and similar sidebars happen daily to each of us.

But we have an excellent model of how to respond. Jesus’ ministry was one interruption after another, yet he always acted with grace, seamlessly weaving each unplanned set of circumstances into his rearranged day. He paid attention to the moment and turned each disturbance into an opportunity to do good.

May we do as well.

“All of us who look forward to his coming stay ready, with the glistening purity of Jesus’ life as a model for our own.” (1 John 3:2)