Miracles, like electronics, sometimes failed. A prayer for rain yielded frogs. A statue wept oil instead of tears. To protect believers and practitioners, the Mutual Assurance of Miraculous Events (MAME) offered policies. Pay a premium, file a claim if your miracle misfired. Adjusters would investigate, approve compensation, or send a technician to recalibrate faith.
Celia was a claims adjuster. She carried a clipboard and holy water in her trunk. Her cases ranged from small (“My sourdough starter multiplied endlessly”) to catastrophic (“The sun stood still for three minutes, crops scorched”). She approached each with skeptical compassion. She verified evidence: video footage, witness statements, residue samples. She had a rubric: magnitude, intent, collateral, liability.
One morning, she received a high-priority claim. A small town reported a miracle of healing gone wrong. A healer named Brother Tomas had laid hands on a woman with chronic pain. She stood, pain-free, then promptly floated three feet off the ground, unable to descend. The town filed for “levitation damages.” Celia drove out, squinting at the bright sign: “Welcome to Hope Springs.”
She found the woman, Marta, tethered by a rope to her porch. She looked annoyed, not scared. “I wanted my back fixed, not this,” Marta said. Brother Tomas wrung his hands. Celia inspected the scene, asked for documentation. She measured Marta’s height off the ground, noted wind direction. She called MAME. “We have a vertical displacement unintended consequence,” she reported.
Coverage depended on fine print. Tomas had not purchased extended coverage for side effects. Marta had not signed a waiver. Celia sighed. “We can cover temporary housing modifications and counseling,” she told Marta. “We’ll work on a descent plan.” She offered Tomas a discounted upgrade. He agreed, sheepish.
Celia contacted a miracle technician—a nun with a physics degree. Together, they tried grounding rituals. They played bass-heavy music. They put weights in Marta’s pockets. Nothing worked. Marta started to enjoy floating, reading books above the porch. Celia filed an addendum: “Client adapting to new baseline.” MAME approved an annual stipend for rope maintenance.
Cases piled. A farmer’s field sprouted loaves of bread instead of wheat. A fountain of youth made people too young, regressing to infancy. Celia wrote reports, balanced skepticism with wonder. She noticed patterns: miracles failed more often where belief was transactional. In places where wonder was communal, miracles held.
One day, Celia faced her own claim. Her mother lit a candle for Celia’s safety. The candle burned for days, wax forming a heart. Celia’s car crashed that week; she walked away unhurt. She filed a claim reluctantly, as required by policy. MAME denied it. “No damages,” the letter said. Celia laughed, then cried. She realized insurance couldn’t price gratitude.
Over time, public sentiment shifted. Some argued insuring miracles commodified faith. Others said it protected the vulnerable. MAME adjusted policies, adding a clause: “Clients must demonstrate non-exploitative intent.” Celia liked that. She started recommending community rituals instead of individual miracles. “Shared wonder is less likely to misfire,” she wrote.
When Marta finally came down years later—no one knew why—Celia visited. Marta missed floating but appreciated eye-level conversations. She framed her rope as a souvenir. Brother Tomas had upgraded his coverage and was more careful. Celia moved to a desk job, training new adjusters. She kept a jar of oil tears from a statue case on her desk as a reminder: miracles, like policies, are human attempts to negotiate with the inexplicable. Both fail. Both deserve grace.