got a coupon.”
“I think these are your best bet,” Eliza told Craig, handing him a short stack.
Craig put down his slice and flipped through them.
“You didn’t give me much to choose from.”
Eliza shrugged. “Almost everything in this inbox is expired. Look.”
She handed him a yellowed scrap of paper from the bottom of the pile.
Dear God: Please get me tickets to C+C Music Factory.
Tania Banks, March 3, 1991
“Are they all like that?” Craig asked.
Eliza nodded. “These are the only recent ones.”
She handed him the prayers, and he carefully laid them out across his desk.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s look at our options.”
Dear God: please give my fat boss a heart attack.
Joseph Hickey, 38, Northern Ireland
“Could be tricky,” Craig said. “I could build up plaque in the guy’s arteries, but I doubt that would kill him by next month.”
“He’s already fat—that might make it easier.”
Craig nodded. “Good point.”
He went to his computer and located the boss in question. He was pacing down the hallway of his Belfast office, screaming at all the underlings in his path.
Craig shook his head with disappointment. “He’s not that fat.”
Eliza pointed to the next prayer. “What about this one?”
Please let the Mariners win the pennant for once in my fucking life.
Mike Bear, 42, Seattle
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “Sports are tough.”
“How tough can they be?”
“God’s a die-hard Yankees fan. He’s got six Archangels working on them every day—driving their fly balls fair, injuring their opponents. And they still win only about sixty percent of their games. It’s not worth the risk.”
He picked up the next prayer:
Dear God: Please don’t let my hamster die.
Andrea Oran, 7, St. Louis
Craig zoomed in on the little girl’s bedroom. Her hamster lay in the corner of a fetid cage, taking rapid, shallow breaths. Craig shook his head.
“That hamster’s a goner.”
They shuffled through the remaining prayers, their anxiety rapidly mounting. Everyone wanted the impossible: a Mega Millions jackpot, a perfect SAT score, a pony. Eventually, they were down to their last prayer. Craig took a deep breath and unfolded it.
It was a recent plea from a twenty-two-year-old New Yorker.
Please let me and Laura be together.
Sam Katz, March 23, 2011
Craig banged his desk with frustration.
“What’s wrong with that one?” Eliza asked.
“Love miracles are impossible,” he said. “I’ve tried them—they never work.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t make two humans fall in love with each other. Too many variables.”
“Like what?”
“This Laura girl could be married, for all we know. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean they’ll ever love you back.”
He picked up the prayer from Seattle. “How many games back are the Mariners?”
Eliza shrugged. “I have no idea.”
They sat for a minute in silence.
“Hey—why is this one two pages?”
He handed Eliza the love prayer, and she realized there was a second sheet stapled to it. She hadn’t noticed it at first; the pages had languished in God’s inbox for so long, they’d gotten stuck together.
“That just means there’s a duplicate,” she explained. “Identical prayers are stapled together to save God time.”
“So someone else wants Sam to get this Laura girl.”
Eliza nodded.
“Probably one of his buddies.”
She unstapled the pages with a paper clip and read the first one out loud. “‘Please let me and Laura be together. Sam.’”
“What’s the second page say?”
Eliza’s eyes widened with excitement.
“What?” Craig said. “Come on, read it.”
“‘Please let me and Sam be together. Laura.’”
The Angels made eye contact and grinned.
“You want to know something?” Craig said. “That could work.”
God passed Craig a book of carpet samples. “I can’t decide between the turquoise and the teal.”
Craig nodded, his eyebrows furrowed to
“I think these are your best bet,” Eliza told Craig, handing him a short stack.
Craig put down his slice and flipped through them.
“You didn’t give me much to choose from.”
Eliza shrugged. “Almost everything in this inbox is expired. Look.”
She handed him a yellowed scrap of paper from the bottom of the pile.
Dear God: Please get me tickets to C+C Music Factory.
Tania Banks, March 3, 1991
“Are they all like that?” Craig asked.
Eliza nodded. “These are the only recent ones.”
She handed him the prayers, and he carefully laid them out across his desk.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s look at our options.”
Dear God: please give my fat boss a heart attack.
Joseph Hickey, 38, Northern Ireland
“Could be tricky,” Craig said. “I could build up plaque in the guy’s arteries, but I doubt that would kill him by next month.”
“He’s already fat—that might make it easier.”
Craig nodded. “Good point.”
He went to his computer and located the boss in question. He was pacing down the hallway of his Belfast office, screaming at all the underlings in his path.
Craig shook his head with disappointment. “He’s not that fat.”
Eliza pointed to the next prayer. “What about this one?”
Please let the Mariners win the pennant for once in my fucking life.
Mike Bear, 42, Seattle
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “Sports are tough.”
“How tough can they be?”
“God’s a die-hard Yankees fan. He’s got six Archangels working on them every day—driving their fly balls fair, injuring their opponents. And they still win only about sixty percent of their games. It’s not worth the risk.”
He picked up the next prayer:
Dear God: Please don’t let my hamster die.
Andrea Oran, 7, St. Louis
Craig zoomed in on the little girl’s bedroom. Her hamster lay in the corner of a fetid cage, taking rapid, shallow breaths. Craig shook his head.
“That hamster’s a goner.”
They shuffled through the remaining prayers, their anxiety rapidly mounting. Everyone wanted the impossible: a Mega Millions jackpot, a perfect SAT score, a pony. Eventually, they were down to their last prayer. Craig took a deep breath and unfolded it.
It was a recent plea from a twenty-two-year-old New Yorker.
Please let me and Laura be together.
Sam Katz, March 23, 2011
Craig banged his desk with frustration.
“What’s wrong with that one?” Eliza asked.
“Love miracles are impossible,” he said. “I’ve tried them—they never work.”
“Why not?”
“You can’t make two humans fall in love with each other. Too many variables.”
“Like what?”
“This Laura girl could be married, for all we know. Just because you love someone doesn’t mean they’ll ever love you back.”
He picked up the prayer from Seattle. “How many games back are the Mariners?”
Eliza shrugged. “I have no idea.”
They sat for a minute in silence.
“Hey—why is this one two pages?”
He handed Eliza the love prayer, and she realized there was a second sheet stapled to it. She hadn’t noticed it at first; the pages had languished in God’s inbox for so long, they’d gotten stuck together.
“That just means there’s a duplicate,” she explained. “Identical prayers are stapled together to save God time.”
“So someone else wants Sam to get this Laura girl.”
Eliza nodded.
“Probably one of his buddies.”
She unstapled the pages with a paper clip and read the first one out loud. “‘Please let me and Laura be together. Sam.’”
“What’s the second page say?”
Eliza’s eyes widened with excitement.
“What?” Craig said. “Come on, read it.”
“‘Please let me and Sam be together. Laura.’”
The Angels made eye contact and grinned.
“You want to know something?” Craig said. “That could work.”
God passed Craig a book of carpet samples. “I can’t decide between the turquoise and the teal.”
Craig nodded, his eyebrows furrowed to
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