Eleanor had been working in the Dead Letter Office for five years, but she’d never seen anything quite like this — an envelope addressed simply to “God” in shaky handwriting that looked like it had been written during an earthquake.
Inside was a letter that made her heart squeeze:
“Dear God, I’m Martha, 85 years young and running low on miracles. Some sneaky youngster with unusually fast hands swiped my purse yesterday with my entire month’s pension. $120. I’ve got five dear friends coming for Christmas dinner, and now I can’t even afford a can of cranberry sauce. I know you’re busy with world peace and all, but could you spare a miracle for an old lady with a sweet tooth and empty cupboards? Love, Martha (the one with the crooked garden gnome collection at the end of Maple Street).”
Eleanor shared the letter with her coworkers. By lunch, they’d collected $116, raiding coffee funds, lunch money, and that secret candy bar stash everyone pretended not to know about.
A week after Christmas, another letter arrived:
“Dear God, You’re a real peach! That $116 you’d left in my mailbox made for the best Christmas dinner ever! My friends said it was divine intervention. I’d say they’re right! Even my arthritis felt better!
P.S. Some sticky-fingered postal worker must’ve skimmed $4 off the top. Might want to look into that. I hear you’ve got connections with Santa’s naughty list! Love, Martha.”
An 85-year-old woman named Doris went to the DMV to renew her driver’s license.
An 85-year-old woman named Doris went to the DMV to renew her driver’s license.
The clerk looked at her paperwork and said, “Ma’am, I see here that you haven’t had a single traffic violation in 65 years! That’s incredible!”
Doris beamed. “That’s right, young man! I’ve been driving since I was 20, and not once have I been pulled over, had an accident, or even gotten a parking ticket.”
The clerk was impressed. “Well, that’s quite an achievement. But given your age, I have to ask—are you sure you still feel comfortable driving?”
Doris scoffed. “Of course! I drive every day. I take my friends to bingo, I go to the grocery store, and I even drove myself here! I may be 85, but I have the reflexes of a cat and the vision of an eagle.”
The clerk nodded and handed her a vision test. “Alright, let’s just check your eyesight.”
Doris put on her thick glasses and peered into the vision machine. “Oh yes, I see it! There’s a big ‘E’ at the top, then an ‘F’ and a ‘P’…”
The clerk smiled. “Great! Now, can you read the second row?”
Doris squinted. “Hmm… I see a ‘Q’… or maybe an ‘O’? No, wait! It’s a bicycle!”
The clerk frowned. “Ma’am… there are only letters on the chart.”
Doris waved a hand. “Oh, I know! But at my age, I’ve learned to predict traffic signs. If there’s an ‘O’ and a ‘P’ together, that usually means ‘STOP’! And if there’s a ‘Q,’ it means I should slow down because I’m probably about to miss my turn.”
The clerk hesitated but decided to continue. “Alright, let’s move on to reaction time. I’m going to tap the desk, and when I do, I want you to clap your hands as fast as possible.”
Doris nodded eagerly.
The clerk tapped the desk.
Doris sat still.
The clerk tapped it again.
Still nothing.
Finally, after a full 30 seconds, Doris clapped her hands together.
The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Uh… was there a delay?”
Doris chuckled. “No, dear, I was just finishing my sip of tea first. You should never rush a good Earl Grey.”
The clerk sighed. “Ma’am, I’m really not sure—”
Just then, another DMV worker burst into the room. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here, Mrs. Doris! Your car is blocking four spaces, there’s a shopping cart wedged under your bumper, and your left blinker has been on for 20 minutes.”
Doris gasped. “Oh, my! That must have been someone else’s car!”
The worker shook his head. “Ma’am, it’s a bright pink Cadillac with a ‘Bingo Queen’ bumper sticker and a bobblehead of Betty White on the dashboard.”
Doris thought for a moment. “Hmm… alright, maybe that was me. But in my defense, parking lots are confusing at my age! I remember when they were just dirt and horse hitching posts!”
The clerk took a deep breath. “Ma’am… I think it might be time to consider giving up driving.”
Doris leaned in with a smirk. “Young man, I will stop driving the day I can’t remember where I put my keys.”
The worker shook his head. “Ma’am, your keys are in your hand.”
Doris laughed. “Well, then I guess I’m still good to go!”
And with that, she shuffled out the door, got in her car, and promptly drove off—with her left blinker still flashing.
