The 8:56 miracle

Our class on miracles was still echoing in my mind when something happened. Not dramatic at first, just a morning. A plan. A promise.

It was a Wednesday. My daughter had an important appointment at 9:30 a.m., and I told her I’d be at her apartment by 9:00. Actually, by 8:30. I wanted to be early, to help calm her nerves.

I’m her mom. I wanted to show up. That’s what we do.

I left Agoura Hills at 7:30 a.m., feeling like I had it under control. I even checked Google Maps to see if I could squeeze in a Starbucks run. It said I’d arrive by 8:35. Tight, but fine. I skipped the coffee. Smart move.

But just as I merged onto the 101, the ETA jumped to 8:45. Then came reroutes: exit at Tampa, then Ventura Boulevard, then Petit, then Hayvenhurst.

I should’ve known something was up when I passed three separate construction zones. With every turn, the arrival time slipped forward.

8:50.

I turned up my music, tried to stay calm.
Breathe, I told myself.

But I kept glancing at the screen, almost willing it to stop moving.

8:55.

That was it. My heart began to race. My stomach clenched. The traffic on Hayvenhurst barely moved. I was trapped behind brake lights, feeling the panic rise.

My daughter called.

“Where are you?”

“I’m not even at Mulholland. It’s a mess.”

“If you’re not here by 9, I’ll just take an Uber.”

And that was it. Her words were calm, but inside, I cracked.

I didn’t want her to take an Uber.
I didn’t want to let her down again.

I had already failed so many times.

There were the school events I didn’t make it to. The moments I said I’d be there but wasn’t. The times she needed me, and I couldn’t come through, or didn’t even know how.

She never said much about it.
But I carried it with me.
And I’m sure, in her own way, she carried it too.

No, I said out loud, as the screen blinked 9:00 a.m.

I couldn’t call her again. Not yet.

I kept it together until I couldn’t.
It wasn’t hysteria, just that quiet, crushing feeling of falling short again.

I sobbed. And then I prayed. I begged.

“Please, G-d, don’t let me be late.
Please help me get to her on time.
Please.”

As I whispered those words, part of me felt foolish.
G-d had so much more to worry about — war, illness, real emergencies.
And here I was, asking Him to help me get somewhere on time.

But I prayed anyway. Because at that moment, it mattered. She mattered.

And as I spoke, I felt something shift. Not outside, but inside.

I felt His presence.
Not far away. Right there — in the stillness, in the asking.

Who was I to question G-d?
He was listening. I could feel it.
And that alone was almost enough.

Then something happened.

Google Maps blinked: 8:58.

I whispered, Thank You.

And then, selfishly, with a trembling voice, I dared to ask for more.

“Please… just two more minutes.”

8:56.

When I looked up and saw the time, I knew.
Hashem had heard me.

He wasn’t far away.
He was right there. In the brake lights, in the tears, in the silence of my car.

I pulled up to her building at exactly 8:56 a.m.

She came out calm. We got to the appointment on time.

And there, like a kiss from the Divine, was a Hashem spot right in front.
No meters. No circling. Just… there.

Once she was inside, I found a nearby restroom. Not exactly sacred space. I locked the door and whispered, “Thank you.”

Then I laughed a little.
Because really — G-d, if You're answering traffic prayers now,
I might have a few other things to run by You.