Six weeks ago, I parked on the street directly in front of my favorite coffee shop, just off the Marietta Square. I park there regularly. So does everyone else who can nab the spot. There are no signs to indicate it’s verboten. No yellow paint along the curb.

Nevertheless, I walked outside a few hours later to discover a mute and unhelpful parking ticket tucked under my windshield wipers (just over the long crack that’s been holding out below my line of vision for years. I keep anticipating a windshield replacement, but so far the crack has remained surprisingly docile and out of sight).

I came to the court building to dispute the matter. I garnered my court date. I went back to the scene of the crime and took photos to support my innocent plea. (There was an unticketed car sitting in the spot. Please Note Exhibit A, Your Honor.)

An hour and a half ago, I arrived in court.

The lights are dim, the mood mildly annoyed but submissive. We sit, lulled by the monotone of legalese poured into our ears.

If I cared to admit guilt and plead for forgiveness, I could simply go up to the judge right now and negotiate my fine.

But innocence is more difficult. I am required to sit it out and wait until the city solicitor can meet with me—and the several dozen other self-proclaimed innocents—so I can present my few photos and make my case.

All of this for a $25 fine. Only unemployment makes the value of this time debatable.

The walls above the wood paneling are a depressing mustard yellow, a perfect color match to the dress of the lady currently speaking with the judge. Her garb features a riot of fleur-de-lis and swirls in black, white and something akin to the by-product one might find in an infant’s diaper. (Sorry: there are few other similes for this particular color.)

But there are no fashion cops here. Only one bored policeman ferrying in orange-suited inmates trying to post bail for their petty crimes, their wrists coupled in silver cuffs so delicate they might be finely wrought jewelry.

Disorderly conduct. Marijuana use. Solicitation.

Why am I here? Oh, right. $25. About a dozen cups of Caribou coffee.

I haven’t had my coffee yet this morning, and it’s wearing on me. David informed me yesterday he’d read (posted over a movie theater urinal, no less) that eating an apple does a better job of stimulating wakefulness than does a cup of coffee.

I heated up a mug of apple juice this morning to drink before I left the house. Tomorrow, I’m reverting to coffee beans.

Coming up on two hours. Still sitting here. Haven’t spoken a word but “pre-trial conference, please.”

PLEASE.

********************************************************

2.5 hours total wait time.

They knocked my $25 ticket down to $10.

Figure in my wait, the photos, the phone calls, the trips downtown…comes to about $3 hour. I’m gonna choose to be okay with that.

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We rarely watch television, but it’s Olympics season and we’ve had the tube turned on far more than usual.

Which means I’m actually watching enough commercials to be annoyed by them. I’m particularly adverse to this one for the Dodge Charger.

It exemplifies the worst in western views on manhood and relationships. If men dutifully endure henpecking and then bust out in supposedly-deserved immaturity when they can’t handle it any more…of course we’ll be a society of torn up marriages. No surprise there.

Your life is miserable, so you deserve a stuff-laden, mid-life crisis, by golly!

This morning I walked into the bathroom as Dave finished up shaving. “I shaved,” he said. “I got up at 6:30 to let the dog out. I put the toilet seat down. I like your Mom. I watched ice dancing with you last night. And I’m gonna drive the car I want to drive.”

“Really?” I inquired.

“The paid-off Honda Civic in our garage,” he affirmed.

I got a good deal on a husband.

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I like free stuff. Yesterday I managed to score a coupon for a free bakery item at Caribou Coffee by filling out a survey on their service, plus nabbing a free hot cocoa from the gal who was doing test drinks for her certification. Then I used a handy coupon at Kroger for free golden oreos (double stuff!). And when the cashier at Old Navy neglected to ask me about opening up a charge account, I landed a $5 gift card.

Not too shabby for a one-day haul.

But none of my no-charge sugar rush compares to the ultimate freebie: God’s grace.

Free, yes. But as Deitrich Bonhoeffer reminds us: it’s not cheap.

That daily dose of grace I so desperately need doesn’t require me to go out and earn it. It isn’t contingent on whether I spend 12 minutes reading scripture or refrain from nagging my husband about the cobwebs hanging from our chandelier (we ARE rather past Halloween) or dispense words of wisdom to 2.5 friends during the course of the day.

It’s grace. By definition, I can’t earn it.

But it IS costly. It requires that I take it seriously. That I never forget God’s cost in the matter. That I place myself in a space to be changed, molded — frankly, to give up my self-ordained right to my own personal comfort zone.

Those free oreos don’t require much of me but a willingness to overlook the ingredient listing.

Grace requires nothing. And everything.

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That’s what Philippe Petit called his breathtaking high wire walk between the Twin Towers, a quarter mile in the air. The coup.

The documentary “Man on Wire” tells the story of what was essentially an artistic crime, trespassing and entering, rigging the wire cable from rooftop to rooftop. But more fascinating than the drama is the man himself. Philippe was obsessed of a single glorious idea from the moment he saw a sketch of the planned towers in 1968 until he finally danced between them in 1974.

The towers existed–or would. That was enough. He had to do it.

Philippe knew no fear in pursuit of his goal, though apparently those around him sure did. And the 45 minutes he spent suspended in mid-air were a miracle to the people who watched. Even one of the cops who arrested him once he was back on terra firma couldn’t call him a wire walker. No, he was a dancer. Fully alive in the face of easy death. Scorning the consequences.

I want to live so fearlessly. To walk out on wires where each step is a miracle, a beautiful act of balance, hovering on the rim of the unknown.

That would indeed be a coup.

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