Numeric Symbols as Spiritual Guidance — A Maturation Process
Rob Brown

Eerie. Wonderful story, Rob.

The number 38 appears to me with stunning regularity. Many times, it is “338.”

I was raised in the Midwest, my father a minister, Mom stayed at home. We lived in a nice neighborhood, I had four brothers. Typical upbringing…or so I thought.

One day when I was 19, my father, who was mad at me for upsetting my Mom took me aside to straighten me out. I still lived at home, putting myself through community college and working two jobs. Mom was upset that I had skipped church that morning, which I did because I hadn’t gotten home from my waitress job until two in the morning and I was exhausted. She actually threw me out of the house over it.

When Dad came home from church (they drove separately) and took me into his room, where you went when it was time for a lecture, he told me that my “real mother ran off and left” me when I was just a few months old.

He had been married before. I had NO idea. Before he finished that first sentence, I fell to the floor in sobs.

He went on to give me a supreme guilt trip about how the woman who turned out to be my step-mother had fallen in love with my two-year-old brother and me and had given up “everything” to marry him and raise us, along with my three younger half-brothers, their subsequently born sons.

It was the most devastating day of my life.

Despite how my entire existence had just been ripped in two, and now not knowing who the hell I was or where I actually came from, I apologized to my step-mother, and continued to honor her as I always had. At 21, I even paid to have her legally adopt me, as one of the reasons they gave for going to extreme measures to keep this secret from me was that they were never able to achieve adoption and were always afraid our biological mother would come to collect us. They said they couldn’t find her.

Eventually, and to the disappointment and disdain of my parents, I found my biological mother, only to lose contact with her again because of how upset my parents were.

Thirty years later, after the Internet was developed and I had searched it many times, I finally found her again, but it was her headstone I found. She had died five years before.

Through that search I also found two surviving half-sisters of the three our mother had after her separation from my father. One had died before I could find her.

How did I know it was my mother’s headstone? I knew her birthday, etched into the stone, was the same day as mine.

She and my father, who died recently, were both born in 1938. The address of the house my father grew up in, that I lived in as a baby, and my father lived in when he died was 338. The month my mother and I were born in? March = 3.

I am somewhat comforted by the notion that they are watching over me, giving me guideposts, encouraging me. I’m not sure I know how to follow those signs, but I do believe they are there.

It was interesting to me how you expressed a knowing of the numbers as guideposts, that they were clear signs you were in the right place at the right time, even though you didn’t know the exact significance of the numbers themselves.

It’s an interesting topic. Thanks for sharing.

{Note: this true story is from my upcoming book. Publish date and title to be announced at a later date.}