When my grandfather, dad’s dad, was dying in hospital in the early 90s, there was concern among the family that they would be unable to contact the youngest son, my uncle.
At that time, said uncle was teaching in a remote Zimbabwean village which had a single rotary phone for community use. Despite large time differences, and the general unlikelihood that my uncle would be standing by that phone, not necessarily close to where he stayed, when they rang. And yet, there he stood in the right place at the right time to receive this important call, acceptance of which enabled him to return to Ireland and be at his father’s side as he passed.
That side of the family also maintain a certain painting of the sacred heart falls from the wall when a relation is due to die.
Alchemisland 
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