Saint Patrick’s Day was approaching – the first one since my mom, “Joan Ellen,” had passed away just a couple months prior. Mom was proud of her very Irish descent. These forces were scraping at my emotional wounds.
First “coincidence”: Our daughter Danielle, then in middle school, headed into South Boston to see the Saint Patrick’s Day parade – her first. The parade route goes right by where my mom spent the final 11 years of her life.
Second “coincidence”: Danielle’s cell phone wasn’t working, though, so we couldn’t stay in touch.
Third “coincidence”: My wife Linda rarely answered her own phone; she’s still notorious for that.
But during the parade, Linda’s phone rang. Strictly because she thought it might be our daughter calling – using a friend’s phone, Linda answered.
Fourth “coincidence”: The caller began talking immediately. No “Hello.”
Instead the caller stated, in a calming voice, “Joan Ellen’s okay. Joan Ellen’s okay.”
Turns out it was apparently a caretaker for a different Joan Ellen, preemptively reassuring the loved one she thought she was calling.
Yes, it was a wrong number, but it was just the right message.
And, you know, sometimes a coincidence is just too much of a coincidence to be just a coincidence.