I am holding this beautiful book in my hand. Inside the covers are four of my stories about how my brother and I keep the connection since he died and how he shows his presence in my life in profound and meaningful ways.

Three of my stories relate to phones and the other is about my 2nd pregnancy.

This book is filled with beautiful stories of people sharing their experiences of how their deceased loved ones communicate in inexplicable ways, from beyond our earthly realm. 

Wayne Dyer, renowned author and spiritual teacher, also has a chapter in the book about his late father.

I am thrilled that my stories are published in this book. I wish that everyone who reads it will find comfort and validation that their loved ones are close by and that as we all know, love never dies. We shall meet again, but in the meantime, may we live our lives well while we are here.

It appears that a cell phone is the tool that my deceased brother Dean finds useful for communicating with us—his loved ones whom he had left behind. During his lifetime, Dean was always into the latest gadgets. He had to have the newest smart phone as soon as the updated version hit the market. So it should have been no surprise to me that he continued using “advanced technology” as his medium of communication after he passed on. 

His first message came only a few days after his funeral. Our family was at the cemetery tending to his grave. My parents and Dean’s children were all there with me as we went about lighting his epitaph candle, burning incense, and saying prayers. At the gravesite, my mother’s cell phone suddenly beeped, letting her know that a message had been received.

My mother was a little technologically challenged, as older people tend to be. She knew very little about her phone, and used it only to make and receive calls, nothing more advanced than that. The one and only time she had ever received a message before had been from Dean, just prior to his death. She didn’t even know how to retrieve a text, so she handed her phone to me, asking me to access the message and read it to her. I saw the message, shivered, and read out loud “I love you.” It was unsigned. Dean was dead. How could he be sending us a message now? We looked at each other in shock, utterly bewildered yet undeniably sensing both Dean’s presence and his love.

We are rational people, and after we recovered from the shock, it was clear to all of us that somehow someone we did not know had punched in a wrong number, and sent that message to us precisely at the moment when we sought to connect with Dean at his grave. Despite the fact that we knew it was a mistake, we still believed that the message was meant for us. It made us feel Dean’s love and his presence. That short message gave us a great feeling of comfort that Dean was still near. It was a wrong number but it came at the right time.

My brother Dean’s favorite number was 38. It appeared in his life a lot. Coincidentally, when he died, he was exactly 38 years old. After his death, I also started seeing this number everywhere.

For example, whenever I looked at my watch or the clock on the wall, inevitably the time would be 38 minutes past the hour; or the number 38 would be displayed as part of car registrations, be the designated table where I was placed in restaurants, appear on ticket numbers, and so on. It seemed to continuously pop up in my life, and it would constantly remind me of my brother, keeping the connection between us alive.

When I felt that my son was old enough to spend a day in childcare, I decided that it was time to do something for myself. I chose to build on my interest in art, and signed up for a course in visual arts. As I progressed through the course, I felt the need to exhibit my work. One of the other students brought in leaflets about an exhibition called Nowa Nowa Nudes, a well-established art competition.

I struggled for ideas as to what to paint for the exhibition. My husband and I wanted to have a second baby and one afternoon when we were lying in bed, inspiration struck. I quickly drew some outlines of my idea, which then developed into the final artwork.

My work was entitled Trying to Conceive—as that was the basis for my inspiration—and it got into the show, along with several hundred works by other artists. Since this was the first time that my artwork was being publically exhibited, my husband and I decided to travel the two-hour distance to the event to view the art on display—mine among them. As we entered the exhibition hall and were given a catalogue, my eyes scanned the titles, looking for my entry. To my amazement and thrill I had been allocated number 38! We wandered around the various rooms searching for my piece, until finally we found it. There it was . . . sitting proudly on the wall, bearing a sticker with the number 38.

Of course I saw this as very auspicious, and it crossed my mind that perhaps Dean’s signature imprint might mean that I was to win the competition, or that something else of import would occur related to the event. But that was not to be. However, I still felt a deep connection to my brother and believed that he was showing support for what I was doing and he was letting me know he was here again.

My husband and I had been trying to conceive a baby for some time and each month I had to deal with the disappointment when I didn’t become pregnant. Shortly after the art exhibit, I was showering one night when a thought crossed my mind “wouldn’t it be a beautiful thing if I were pregnant this month, the month I saw the number 38.” Once again I would feel that Dean was around and happy for me. However, I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

For that cycle my menstrual period was due to start on November 11, which is commemorated as Remembrance Day in Australia. So on Remembrance Day, a day when we remember all those who lost their lives in wars, I took a pregnancy test and found out that yes, indeed, I was pregnant.

I felt then that both the inspiration for my artwork and the title were Dean’s way of telling me that the pregnancy was going to happen. The number 38 randomly being chosen as the number for my exhibit clearly told me that Dean was giving me a message. It was not Dean making my art win. It was Dean sharing in the joy of our special news that our baby was on its way.

The coincidence of my artwork creation, the entry number, and my pregnancy seemed to lead to only one conclusion: my brother knew I was pregnant before I did. And he just couldn’t wait to share the news.

Thank you for reading my excerpt from the published book, Small Miracles from Beyond. Please leave a comment below or share your own experience.

People talk about the line in the sand when someone you love dies. When you think about a memory, there’s a metaphorical line that divides what occurred before the person died and after the person died. This becomes your reference point to relating to the world.  

I would remember things and refer to them as that was when Dean was still alive, and there was peace in my world and everything was good.

Then sometimes I’d think back and refer to it as that was after Dean died, and the world seems so different, unfamiliar and strange.