There was once a very devout nun named Sister Mildred, who had served at St. Eustace’s Convent for nearly 70 years. She was as faithful as they came—strict, serious, and still convinced the tambourine was the devil’s percussion. But age had finally caught up with her, and her old bones creaked louder than the chapel’s ancient floorboards.
After much convincing from the abbess and a suspiciously enthusiastic group of younger nuns, Sister Mildred agreed to visit the town doctor.
Dr. Jenkins, a cheerful man with a slight resemblance to a confused goldfish, examined her and nodded thoughtfully.
“Sister Mildred, your nerves are tight as piano wire, and your blood pressure could inflate a weather balloon. I’m going to prescribe something very simple to help you relax—a shot of whiskey. Three times a day.”
Sister Mildred nearly fainted on the spot. “Whiskey? Doctor, I am a woman of the cloth!”
“Yes, and I’m trying to keep you from becoming a ghost in one,” he replied gently. “Just a small shot, for medicinal purposes.”
With a look that could curdle holy water, Sister Mildred huffed all the way back to the convent.
Determined not to fall into “worldly pleasures,” she refused to drink it straight. Instead, she demanded it be added discreetly to her tea, so as not to scandalize the sugar cubes.
The convent cook, Sister Patty, a woman who enjoyed a bit too much butter and gossip, obliged.
And so it began.
Morning tea: one shot.
Afternoon tea: one shot.
Evening tea: one shot.
At first, no one noticed much of a difference. But after a week, the sisters began to observe… subtle changes.
Sister Mildred started humming during prayers.
She began smiling during confessions—as the confessor.
And one evening, she shouted “Bingo!” during silent meditation.
By the third week, she was leading a conga line through the garden, wearing her habit like a cape and calling herself “Sister Mildred the Mellow.”
The abbess called an emergency meeting.
“Sisters,” she began gravely, “we may have accidentally fermented Sister Mildred.”
Sister Patty admitted to possibly being too generous with the whiskey—“I was eyeballing it,” she confessed, “and my left eye’s not what it used to be.”
They decided to cut the whiskey in half. But it was too late.
One morning, Sister Mildred waltzed into breakfast wearing sunglasses, clutching a mug that read “Holy Water? Nah, Irish Tea,” and asked if the Vatican had a jazz choir.
The priest came by for a wellness visit.
He found her blessing the garden gnomes with holy lemonade.
“Are you all right, Sister?” he asked.
“Oh, Father,” she giggled, “I feel divine.”
Eventually, after much negotiation and a few hangovers, the whiskey doses were phased out. Sister Mildred, thankfully, returned to her old self—almost.
She still hummed during prayers, now just a soft jazz tune. And she still wore her sunglasses—but only on Wednesdays.
When asked what she thought of the whole experience, she sipped her chamomile tea and said, “Well, I may not have been lured into worldly pleasures… but let’s just say heaven’s gonna need better tea.”
