I commute to Chicago for work. My wife tells me all the time that she’s worried about me in my travels. She asks her guardian angel to go with me and watch over me while I commute.

A few years back, she said to me, “You’re not going on the train today to Chicago are you?” I told her no. She repeated herself, that I should not get on the train that day.

That morning, a westbound train heading to Chicago crashed into another train going east in East Chicago. It was a major accident; many people were injured and quite a few died. They had to use our arena for a temporary morgue.

Yet another time, my wife said, “Do me a favor and do not use the elevator today.” I asked her why, and she replied, “Just do it please.” I told her not to worry.

On the news that day, an elevator fell five floors in a building in Chicago, with numerous people hurt.

I work in the hotel industry and at our main hotel we have a restaurant. On a particular day we were expecting a large group in the restaurant.

The phone rings “Don’t eat any bacon today” the wife says.

Now as most men would say are you crazy, bacon, bacon, bacon, oh my God bacon, I wish I could have bacon!

I have high cholesterol so I do have to be careful. It wasn’t even 10 minutes and the phone rang “Earl can you come to the kitchen.”  I walk over to the kitchen and there must have been 8 racks of bacon standing 7 ft tall surrounding me. They had prepared the bacon for this large group they were expecting. The group canceled and they said “Earl start eating!” Oh my God, a mans dream coming true almost as good as my other dream about a tall blond. But I restrained myself and have only one sandwich.

Nothing further happened.

Until yesterday.

“Did you back the car into someone today?” my wife asked me on the phone. I told her no. She called me again in the middle of the afternoon. “I need you to come home right away. The dog hurt her leg and you have to take her to the vet.” My mother-in-law lives with us, so my wife can’t just leave the house.

By 4 p.m. I wrapped everything up at work and got ready to leave. I walked out to the garage, got in the car (the spaces are separated by concrete pillars), and proceeded to back out of my parking space.

After 10 years of no accidents, I hit the pillar left of the car, scraping the left rear panel. Yellow paint from the pillar striping had left its mark for everyone to see.

I didn’t take the train, I didn’t get in an elevator but I did have to back out of a parking spot, as my wife foretold.

In a rational world, one is hard-pressed to explain the concept of guardian angels. Yet, my wife seems to possess a gift. How to explain it? I know this: The next time she cautions me, I hope I will follow her instructions to the letter.