An elderly man came into a shop with a ‘Salesman Wanted’ sign in a window.
He went up to the owner & said, “I-I-I w-w-wanna-t the j-joooob-b.”
“I don’t know if this job would suit you because of your speaking impediment,” said the owner.
“I h-h-havvve a w-wi-wiiiife & s-s-s-six k-kkkids, iiii-I re-really neeeed thi-thi-this j-j-job!” said the man.
“O.K. Here are three Bibles. Go out & sell them.” said the owner.
So the man went out & came back an hour later.
“H-here-sss your m-m-money.” said the elderly man.
The owner was impressed, so he gave the man a dozen more Bibles & sent him out.
The man came back in two hours & said, “Her-ers y-yooour m-m-money.”
The owner said, “This is fantastic. You sold more Bibles in three hours than anyone has sold in a week. Tell me, what do you say to the people when they come to the door?”
“W-welllll,” said the old man,
…
..
.
“I r-r-ring the d-door bell, a-a-and s-s-say ‘H-Hel-Hello, M-m-maaaaddam, d-d-do you w-w- want t-t-t-to buy thi-thi-this B-B-Bible, oooor d-d-do y-you w-w-want m’me t-toooo read it t-t-t-t-to you?
A woman at the Post Office handled mail with illegible addresses
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.”
