In a response to a facebook comment a few weeks ago, I said that I don’t have a special number, like my daughter who was seven on 7/7/77, like my brother who celebrated a very important birthday on 09/09/09.

A student kindly reminded me that I do, in fact, have a very special number, which I mentioned more than once during my years of teaching. That’s true. I’ve mentioned it in classes and in speeches I’ve given. How could I forget?

The number? 11:11.

Many years ago, I looked at a digital clock, and that’s what it said: 11:11. After that, it seems like every time I looked at the clock it said 11:11.

I mean, if it were a Monday and I was home taking my sweet time getting around in the morning, and if I eventually got in the shower, finally got out again, wrapped my hair in a towel and myself in a robe, padded into the kitchen to pour myself a Diet Coke, leaned against the counter enjoying such luxury, and glanced over at the clock on the microwave, it would be 11:11.

Over and over it happened. Many times I’ve worked in my study while Tony watched the late news in the bedroom and fell asleep. Finally, I’ve put away my things, gone in and taken the remote out of his sweet hand, turned off the TV and his light, gone into the bathroom and taken off what was left of my makeup, crawled into bed beside him, fluffed up a pillow and turned it to the cold side, sunk into it, stretched, thanked God I was in bed, rolled over—and noticed the clock said 11:11.

I probably can’t make you understand how bizarre it has been at time. One year, for example, I was teaching my English Literature class using my Norton Anthology Major Authors, 4th edition. This was a problem, because my students had the fifth. Then one day half way through the semester, I found my 5th edition and took it to class for the first time. I was so excited because we would actually be, the class and I, on the same page (at least literally). When I turned to the poem we were studying that day (the book has over 2500 pages), it was on page 1,111.

I wish I’d kept a record of the various and sometimes astounding times the number has visited me.

A few years ago I told my colleague Rex Wolfe about this phenomenon, and we decided that it might mean that I’m going to die at 11:11.

Still teaching at the time, we also decided it would probably happen on Nov. 11th, at 1111 North Main, the college address, probably during class at 11:11 in the morning. We imagined my precious students stepping over me, thrilled to get out early.

But the thought that that’s when I might die does not bother me in the least. In fact, it has brought me great comfort; it has seemed a reminder from the halls of heaven. If that’s when I’m going to die, then that’s also when, oh greatest of mysteries, I’m going to be with God. Faith will be made sight, wandering, however lovely it has sometimes been, finally over. I’ll be home, really home.

So whenever I see 11:11, I smile and think, “Soon.“

I guess I have a pretty special number after all.