Even Less Than an Empty Tomb

NOTE TO SELF:  Keep up with your lock box keys.  

We received notice a couple of months ago at the church that our bank lock box was up for renewal.  "What lock box?" we asked.  

"Box 455 at the Urbandale Branch" was the answer -- clear across town. 

After several weeks of archeological desk and file expeditions, we concluded that no key was to be found, no knowledge was to be gained about possible contents, and I turned out to be one of only two signators.  With no alternative in hand, a date was set with the locksmith to gain admission the old fashioned way:  a drill.  Yesterday was that date.

On a side note, let me observe that lock box locks turn

 out to be fascinating engineering.  Required were a power drill, a special threaded stem, a metal jig of some sort, a plastic outer attachment, two different wrenches turned by hand simultaneously in the opposite direction, patience (when the stem breaks several times) and ultimately a uniquely bent probe that is inserted around the now loosened mechanism that apparently fishes for some interior and, again apparently, elusive release.  Having already received his sympathy extended to me ("You would be surprised how often this happens..."), I now felt sympathy for him.  It can't be easy to concentrate on the intricate task at hand while an impatient bank representative and a befuddled customer are watching over your shoulder.

Finally, however, the deed was done -- the birth waters were ruptured -- and the baby was placed gingerly in my hands.  I was surprised by the size of the thing.  Hardly the little 3 X 5 inch box I was expecting, but a large one, akin to the junk drawer in our kitchen, only escalating my intrigue.  What could be in it?  The box technically belonged to our endowment fund, so surely it held long-forgotten stock certificates or gold bars or deeds to property now worth a fortune.  I remembered Geraldo Rivera's dramatic and televised opening of Al Capone's vault and I wondered if I should have called the TV station.  Though now in my hands and feeling surprisingly light, I knew that beneath that lid could be almost anything...

...or, as turned out, nothing.  Well, not literally nothing.  Inside was a single envelope -- aged and brown -- with a single notation:  "1974 Restated Articles of Incorporation."  

That's it.  Big box.  Big hassle.  Big expense (drilling doesn't come cheap).  Big let down.  A few sheets of paper I have to believe could be requested from the State should the need arise.  Big deal.

It felt sort of like an Easter cartoon on the Comedy Channel, and I was playing the part of Mary Magdalene.  At least when she visited what turned out to be an empty vault she got to see an angel.  I was stuck with Matt, the banker, and the lock smith shaking their heads at the utter waste of time of it all.  Ditto.