Growing up in the very northeastern corner of Stokes County, like most kids, we mimicked the behaviors of our parents and older relatives. And while we lived in a practical, working-class community, we still heard stories of dreams, visions, and unexplained happenings. Truth be told, I was always a pretty practical guy myself. But some things just stuck with me. And some stories stayed in my back pocket until the right time.

In 2006, my mother-in-law was in a skilled nursing facility when she transitioned. One of her attending nurses shared a vivid and enlightening story—how, near the end, wild animals would sometimes approach the edge of the woods. She said deer had even come near the windows of the dying. Sometimes at night, their eyes would shine in the distance—small clusters of them gathered just past the light, their presence both quiet and sure. The remarkable part? This particular facility sat in a city setting—not out in the country, not surrounded by woods. But the animals still came. It stuck with me.

Then there was the moment that shaped my own understanding of signs. We were on a family trip to Woodbury, New Jersey. I was a pre-teen, and our crew—my brother Reginald, sister Sandra, and cousins Ron and Valerie—had struck out to go to a nearby mall. We were crossing a busy multi-lane road. Not at a crosswalk. Just a busy highway with cars speeding by like a video game. Someone yelled, “Let’s go!” and they all darted across. I hesitated, then followed.

Just as I stepped forward—feet in motion—I felt two strong arms go up under my armpits, lift me clean off the ground, and pull me back. In that instant, a truck barreled by in what would’ve been my path. Sudden death. I didn’t tell a soul for years.

Maybe five years later, I told my grandfather, Elder Levi Scales. He listened quietly and his eyes twinkled. He didn’t say much, but somehow, he said a lot.

A few years ago, I had another one of those moments—this time in Columbus, Ohio. My Uncle Richard had transitioned, and many of us had traveled for his farewell. We were at the house of his wife, my Aunt Cathy—parents, cousins, relatives all packed in—and I was sitting in a chair with my phone placed on the flat armrest. It was a perfectly level surface. At some point, I noticed the phone had slid to the floor. I checked—no missed call, no message, no alert.

I shrugged and placed it back. A minute later, it slid off again.

Now Uncle Richard had my attention.

It wasn’t a big room. No breeze. No shaking. Just family sitting around. My mom leaned over and said, “You might want to put that phone somewhere else.”

I just smiled.

I didn’t say anything out loud, but I thought it clearly:
“I see you, Uncle Richard.”

And signs don’t always show up in the middle of the day. Sometimes, they find you in the stillness of early morning.

After we moved to Louisiana, I worked with a retired engineer and former Marine named Tom. At first, we couldn’t have been more different. He ran Operations. I ran the financial management functions. And we butted heads more than once. But somehow—through what I can only describe as divine intervention—we became close friends. Even after we stopped working together, we’d meet for lunch every few months. Tom was a big Alabama fan, and we always talked SEC football.

In early 2023, his family let me know he was very sick. Hospice had been called in. I hadn’t heard anything in weeks.

Then one night, around 4 a.m., I felt something at the foot of the bed. I thought it was Breezy, our dog, sneaking up where she wasn’t supposed to be. But when I got up, she was sound asleep in her bed. Later that morning, I got the call: Tom had passed. Around 4 a.m.

He had come to say goodbye. And I believe that.

Just like I believe the story my cousin told about the two young deer who showed up one morning on her porch. They stayed all day and left the next. It was just months after Uncle Obie had passed. My cousin and her sisters believe it was them—coming to check on their girls and let them know all is well.

Some folks will call these things coincidence. Others may smile and nod and move on.
But we believe them. Always have.

Maybe we don’t always recognize them in the moment. But like good stories—and good people—they tend to show up right when we need them.

As best as I remember it.