PENNIES FROM HEAVEN

I found a penny today
Just laying on the ground.
But it's not just a penny
This little coin I've found.


I spied it there in the middle of the bathroom floor, a Lincoln head penny staring up at me from the tile. I picked it up and grinned at old Abe. I was getting ready for a Woman's Prayer breakfast at church, but I took the time to walk back into my bedroom and carefully place the penny in a china cup on my dresser. It clinked against the other coins in the cup, a pleasant reminder of just how many of these little treasures I have accumulated in the past few months.

I've been picking up coins off the floors for years. I used to rail at my husband and sons; the spillage from their pockets broke the belts on my vacuum cleaner, found their way into the crevices of my woodwork, and stuck to the wax on the kitchen floor. Coins lived in the couch cushions or the car seats or hid in the pockets of jeans that were carelessly thrown into the washer, rattling around in wild abandonment. 

My husband would just smile at me and shrug. "Pennies from heaven," he would say. "Means an angel is thinking of you." Then he would bend down and carefully pick the penny up and stick it in his pocket, heedless to the fact that it would likely end up on the floor again. I tried, with varying degrees of success, to accept a habit I couldn't change. I ordered vacuum cleaner belts in bulk. 

In the last few years, Ron was no longer able to bend and pick up the wayward coins, but he still delighted in finding them. "Look, Linda," he would shout, " a penny! Hurry and pick it up!" So I would, and he say, "A penny from heaven!" Once in a while I would ponder where all the pennies were coming from; Ron's pockets were mostly empty as he became more and more disabled and his wardrobe consisted of easy on, easy off clothing. The pennies found their way into a jar we kept on his dresser. Finding coins in unexpected places delighted him. 

Found pennies come from heaven
that's what my Grandma told me.
She said Angels tossed them down
Oh, how I loved that story!

Like the other items that resided in the room that became Ron's the last nine months, the jar was eventually moved. I took the contents to the change machine at the bank. I used the few dollars to buy flowers for his grave.

But a few days after Ron passed away, I found a penny, right there in the hallway where I had just vacuumed the day before. I told myself it must have come from Allen, even though I knew Allen was favoring athletic shorts with no pockets in the last days of summer and with the disregard for social conventions characteristic of adults with autism, kept his change in a plastic bag. I picked the penny up and put it on my dresser.



She said when an Angel misses you
They toss a penny down,
sometimes just to cheer you up
To make a smile out of your frown.

Coins kept showing up, sometimes in the hallway or the steps, once on the bedroom floor, a few times under the couch. The coins were mostly pennies, although the occasional dime or nickel would appear. I asked Allen if he was dropping money and he just shrugged. I took a cup my best friend had given me and started collecting the coins. And every time I found one, I thought of my husband. "Quick, Linda! Pick it  up! It's a penny from heaven!"

This morning's coin, I figured, was just one more reminder of my beloved Ron, perhaps a "have a good time at the woman's breakfast" or an "I'm thinking of you today" or a mere coincidence. It didn't matter to me. I hummed a couple of bars of that old Bing Crosby ditty, "Pennies from Heaven," and got ready to go out.

My daughter arrived a few minutes later and as we drove the short distance to the church, I told her about the penny. "That's Daddy," she agreed. "He was always dropping coins." After the breakfast was over, I asked her to drive by the cemetery.

"Dad's gravestone was supposed to be in last week," I said. "But it wasn't. I want to check." It had been hard to see the stone two weeks ago when it arrived at Lawncroft. It would be harder still to see it over his grave. If possible, I wanted my daughter with me.

So don't pass by that penny
When you're feeling blue.
It may be a penny from heaven
That an Angel's tossed to you.

Author: Copyright © 1998 C Mashburn

"I put roses there on Valentine's Day," I told my daughter as she parked the car and we walked the short distance across the ground. "I hope they're still there."

Bonnie stopped and grabbed my arm. "The roses are there, Mom. And the stone, " she said. "Daddy's marker. It's there."

And it was. The Indian red stone for his favorite color,  the flying eagle for his favorite football team, John 3:16 for his favorite Bible verse. And his name and dates: Ronald A. Cobourn, 1951-2019.

Bonnie and I stood for a moment, hugging each other. And I remembered that penny on the bathroom floor, that penny that maybe came from Ron, that penny that reminded me that while widowhood had some very rough moments, it also had some wonderful memories. 

Like all of those pennies I've collected in the china cup in the last seven months. 

Millions of Rooms!

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God[a]; believe also in me. 2 My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am."  John 14:1-3

We are enjoying the flickering flames from our new electric fireplace log when Allen, sitting on the couch with his father's hospital blanket around him, says, "I need to talk about Dad. But I need to find my words."

"Okay," I say and settle back into my chair. I ask no questions; I have learned to wait until Allen is ready to talk.

My son picks up a metal rod and begins to roll it between his palms, a technique that helps him to calm down. For a few moments, there is only the realistic sound of a crackling fire from the hearth. "The thing is," says Allen, " I know that Dad's not really over at the firehouse. I just  like to tell myself he is because that means he's still close to us."

I nod. Allen, an adult with high-functioning autism, has come to terms with his father's recent death by using magical thinking, an anthropological concept that allowed him time to believe in his father's return until he was ready to accept the finality of death. We no longer look for Ron in parks or on baseball fields, but when Allen feels the need, he asks for a "Dad moment."

Allen continues."I know we're doing okay, you and me. We've found a way to live without...Dad." He gulps. "We're even happy. Right?"

"As Dad would want us to be," I say.

Allen agrees. "Yeah. So we're okay. But is Dad okay? Wherever he is and whatever he's doing, is he okay? Does he miss us? Is he sad?"

I want to reassure my son, this tall adult with a child-like faith, that of course his father is happy and well. But I struggle with my own words for a moment. What do I really KNOW about Heaven, the place my husband now resides?

Allen continues to roll the metal rod in his hands and I think back to the Last Supper. The disciples had come to celebrate the Passover with their Rabbi and were suddenly told that one of them would betray Him! And if that wasn't bad enough, Jesus would then leave them and go to a place where they could not follow (John 13:35), the same place where Allen cannot follow his father. I can well imagine the heart-sickness of the disciples. I remember the feeling when I knew Ron had gone on ahead of me to a place I could not yet go. 

The words of John 14:1-3 were spoken, no doubt, to comfort the faithful friends of Jesus, to let them know that while he would be absent from them for a while, they would ultimately join Him. "Let not your heart be troubled," Jesus told them even though trouble was quickly approaching. How puzzled they must have been!

Perhaps as puzzled as my son, who sits with his father's hospital blanket wrapped around him, looking to me for answers that are both concrete and tangible, rolling a metal rod between his palms.  I think of the many rooms Jesus spoke of, and I begin slowly.

"Tell me about your room," I tell Allen. "What do you keep in your room?"

He shrugs and looks at me quizzically, probably thinking I am changing the subject. Yet he responds. "Things that are important to me. Things I like. My swords. My games." His voice catches. "Dad's blanket. It's my place."

I nod. "And remember when Dennis would come home from college and take over your room? What happened then?"

Allen grins. "Dennis would put my stuff out in the hallway. I'd have to drag my sleeping bag into Bonnie's room. I didn't have a special place anymore."

"Exactly, " I say. "Remember last year when Dad couldn't climb the steps anymore and we had to put the hospital bed in the dining room?" Allen nods. "And we couldn't move everything Dad liked into the dining room. It wasn't really Dad's room."

"No. I guess not. The dining room stuff was still there. Poor Dad."

Allen has stopped rolling the rod between his hands and seems to be following my thinking, so I continue. "But there's a verse in John 14 that says in Heaven--the place where Dad lives now--there are lots and lots of rooms."

"Like at PopPop's house?"

"Even bigger," I say. "Millions of rooms. One for every person ever born."

My son's blue eyes widen. "Wow! So is there a special room there, just for Dad?"

"Absolutely. And God knew just what Dad would need in his special room to feel like it was his. God had it all ready for Dad when he left us in July. And when Dad got to Heaven, it was filled with things he loved. The verse goes on to say, 'I go to prepare a place for you.' Unlike the dining room, it was just for Dad."

Allen considers this for a moment and pulls the blanket closer. "I'm glad Dad has his own room now. But doesn't he miss us? Does he know we're okay?"

Those are hard questions. I only know what some scholars, such as Henry Aford and Billy Graham say. Hebrew 12:1 says "Since we are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight and sin which clings so closely, and then let us run with endurance the race that is set before us." I imagine the people in Heaven--my mother, my grandparents, my husband--cheering for us.

I tell Allen, "Yes. Dad knows we are doing well. He sees us all the time. And he doesn't miss us because he knows we will come to him. Time in Heaven is not like time here on earth. Dad is watching us and wanting us to live the best lives we can."

The metal rod remains set aside but something is still bothering Allen. I wait for him to speak again, content to be sitting in our cozy living room with the crackling sound of the electric fire.

"Well, I guess that's okay. I'm glad he has a room and all." Allen's voice holds disappointment. "I was just hoping that Dad was getting to do something exciting. Like being a fireman."

I smile. "Why would you think Dad would like to be a fireman?"

Allen shrugs. "Well, all Dad could do for the last couple of years was sit around and watch TV. Play Wii bowling with me once in a while when he was feeling okay. I think he was pretty bored. I'd like to think he had something exciting to do now."

I certainly do not know if there is a need for firemen in heaven, but I do know what the Book of Revelations says. "Heaven's not boring! The Bible says that we will have work to do and we will never get tired or bored of it. Just like God has a room for each of us, He has a job for each of us. I'm sure Dad is doing something fun and exciting."

My son nods. "Okay. Still think he'd like to be a fireman. Maybe there's a big campfire in Heaven. Dad always liked to be in charge of the fire when we went camping."


"He did that," I say. "And if there's a campfire in Heaven, I am sure it is spectacular!"

"Then I'm going to think that's what Dad is doing." He yawns. "I'm going up to bed."

"Me, too," I say. I check the lock on the front door and Allen uses the remote to turn off the fireplace.

"Dad would have loved the fireplace now," says Allen. I smile in agreement and together we walk up the stairs, the blanket still wrapped around my son's shoulders. He gives me a sideways hug. "Just one thing..."

"What?"

"Well, if Dad's in charge of the campfire, I sure hope God's got a whole lot of marshmallows. Dad LOVED to roast marshmallows. "

DAD'S COAT: A CHRISTMAS STORY

Matthew 25:40

"The King will reply, 'Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'

Allen and I are wrapping Christmas presents, enjoying a “Dad moment” as we remember the
crazy shapes Ron would wrap presents in so no one could guess the contents. Allen sticks a bow
onto a gift--just a plain old shirt box--and whispers to me conspiratorially. “I already knew what I was
getting Dad for Christmas,” he says. 

“Really?” I say in surprise. “Dad died in July. How could you already know what he needed?”

Allen sighs. I know he is processing the words that will make sense to both him and me. Reconciling
himself to his father’s death five months ago was not easy and my autistic son spent weeks
believing his father would come back again if only he could find the magic formula. “Well,” he begins,
“Back when I thought Dad was coming back..” his voice catches "...I was thinking that Dad
needed to be safe and protected. You know, from all the illnesses and stuff.” He looks at me for
confirmation and I nod. “So, I wanted to get him a big coat--like the firemen wear--to protect him.”

As always, I am touched by the heart of my youngest son whose concern for his ill father was a
focus of most of his life. It is a moment before I can trust my voice to answer. “I am sure Dad would
have appreciated that,” I say. “But you know, we gave Dad a new coat last year.” I swallow.
“He only wore it once.”

Allen does not reply. He picks up another gift to wrap. “I still wish I could give Dad something.”

So do I, I want to say. But a person who is living in the Heavenly Kingdom has no need of material
items. Still, how could we honor Ron and his life? I begin to recall the gifts of years past and the
many, many years when we had no money to give anything to each other and scraped together
Christmas for our kids. Then, a thought enters my mind.

“You know,” I say casually, “my school is collecting things to give to the homeless population in
Philadelphia. Every Tuesday, a group goes down to Center City and gives out hats and gloves and
scarves.” I take a moment to fight back tears. “How about if we give Dad’s coat away?”

Allen considers it. “We’re sure Dad won’t need it?”

I shake my head. “No. Dad has no need of a coat. You know where he is, Allen. You know he’s not
coming back.”

There is a sigh. Allen’s acceptance has been hard won and is still tenuous. “I know,” he whispers.
“Sometimes I just like to pretend he is.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “It’s okay to pretend that. So, what do you think? Should we give Dad’s coat
away?” I go on wrapping presents as his atypical mind processes the information.

Finally, there is a nod. “Okay. Can I be the one to put it in a bag?”

“Of course,” I say.

The next morning, I pick up the bag Allen has left on the enclosed porch and carry it out to the car. Even though I was the one who suggested it, I am strangely reluctant to give the coat away. It seems so final. I bought the coat a year ago with hope: hope that Ron’s physical therapy would help him improve to the point where he might be able to leave the house; hope that with assistance  from his nursing aid and the elevator at church he might once again be able to join me at Sunday services; hope that a few small steps taken outside on the sidewalk might lead to a walk around the park, a Saturday in the spring sitting on a park bench watching the boats sail down the Delaware River, a family outing to a Phillies’ game. 

None of which happened. I feel the weight of the lost hopes as I heft the bag into my car and drive to
school, my eyes smarting tears, my heart breaking. I carry it into the school and it sits behind my
desk, an accusation. Why did I continue to hope? Why did I continue to think things would get better?
Finally, I ask a student to carry the damning bag upstairs to Brother David. I can breathe easier
when it is gone. Back home, I only tell Allen I have given the coat to the school.

During the days up to Christmas, I struggle to maintain some Christmas cheer. I engage with my students and the Christmas traditions of a Catholic high school in the best ways I can: the Ugly Sweater Day, the cookie exchange, the Secret Santa pick. At home I collapse after supper, going to bed early and waking up still tired. I plod along, expending emotional energy at school and with Allen, and helping my two older children as much as I can. I pack away more of Ron’s clothing for the Good Will donations and I order his grave marker at the cemetery. I put up a small tree for Allen and me, I unpack decorations. I function.

It is the day before school breaks for Christmas and I am getting my classroom ready for the students
that arrive before the first bell, students who are still learning English and crave the warm safety of
my ESL room. I am humming “O Holy Night” and taking deep breaths whenever I think of my late
husband. Ron loved Christmas. Everyday, I swim through the thick memories to surface with my
students.

I am switching on the lights when Brother David appears at my door. “Merry Christmas,” he says and
I respond. “I wanted you to know,” he continues, “that your husband’s coat found a home yesterday.
We were able to give it to a homeless man who was very appreciative.”

My heart swells even as tears spring to my eyes. I can feel Ron’s warm smile bathing me. My husband had a generous heart.

"But it's funny how it happened," says Brother David. "We'd had the coat a few weeks, you know, but
we didn't meet anyone that needed a 4-X coat. Then, on Tuesday, a large man came by and said
he'd been looking for a coat but he could never find one to fit him. He said he didn't often come down
near City Hall, but someone he barely knew told him to come see us. In fact, he couldn't remember
ever seeing that person before. So he came down and there we were. And your husband's coat fit
him perfectly."

I nod but find I cannot speak.

"He said," Brother David continued, "that he'd been offered some construction work over the holidays
but he knew he needed something warm to wear. He'd just about given up finding a coat. He was
wearing a couple of sweat shirts, but that's all he had. When we gave him the coat, he cried. He said
it gave him hope that he could turn his life around."

I am crying right now, realizing that the hope I held for the coat I'd bought for Ron had been fulfilled
after all. Brother David reaches out and hugs me. All day, I hide this gift in my heart, thinking of how my son will react when I tell him his father’s coat is now protecting someone else.

Back home again, Allen has hot tea ready for me and I settle into my chair. “Dad’s coat found a home
today,” I tell him. I tell him the story from Brother David. Allen smiles, then is thoughtful for a moment.

"We should hang up Dad' stocking," he says. "Because it feels like Dad is still here."

"He still is," I say as Allen dives into the box of Christmas decorations to retrieve the stocking. "And he always will be."