Whenever I hear one of my favorite persons and “sister friends,” Tabitha Brown, tell her touching story about her beloved mother leaving her dimes after her passing, it brings tears to my eyes. Those dimes Tabitha finds in chance places are a molasses-sweet conduit to her mother. They are dimes that intentionally cascaded from Heaven just for her. They are also a reminder that, as her mother’s daughter, although her mother’s earthly body is no longer there to embrace, and her voice isn’t there to give her wisdom or to laugh like thunder, she is still here, an angel hovering nearby.  

Often when I think about Tabitha’s story about the heavenly monetary gifts her mother leaves her, I think about my own mother. Sometimes I wish I could will her back on earth, ask God to give her a hall pass, so she can come down from those pearly gates to have another meal with me, her favorite meatloaf with mashed potatoes and string beans. And of course since she had a sweet tooth, a piece of Louisiana Crunch cake. Afterwards we would have a deep conversation, and I would spill the beans on everyone, who did what, who needed to get their life in order, who was soaring, and how I am faring mentally and spiritually. Both were important to her when raising my older sister and me, especially our mental because she had seen so many other women in our family suffer in silence mentally because talking about mental health was so taboo. I’m sure she would tell me to stop worrying so much, and to have faith that everything would work out. And then she’d say, “Let’s eat cake!” And we’d laugh, my emotional load lightened, and eat cake.  

I miss her so even so many years later when some think grief should just be a ripple rather than a wave. And although there have been signs that she is nearby, like when I hear her favorite song playing on the radio or see her apartment building number partially on a license plate, or feel a cool breeze brush my cheek when the windows are shut, those signs just make me long for more.   

One evening though, as I got ready for bed, earlier than my husband because I was overtired and overwhelmed, I pulled my comforter back and in the middle of the bed were a few coins. Three pennies, one nickel, one dime, and two quarters. Sixty-eight cents. I tried to recall whether I had opened my purse on the bed and my change had fallen out, but I knew I hadn’t. Besides, when I woke up earlier that morning, I had made up my bed, shaken the covers out and smoothed the edges per usual and there were no coins there.    

Maybe, I told myself, the adult in me superseding my inner child who still believed in miracles, had overlooked them somehow in my rush to start my day. But I hadn’t, and so all I could do was to accept that it was a divine sign from my mother.  

A wide smile, intermingled with tears, quickly mapped my face. I thought of Tabitha Brown and her mother. I thought about how bittersweet it was to receive a gift from our mothers without them being able to hand it to us personally, and our hands touch and our arms enfold them in gratitude even if it was just a few coins they had gifted us with. And then I thought of how phenomenal it was to know they were with us, winged over us like a Heavenly mother bird, and how they found a tangible way to let us know they were there, when we longed for them the most, whether it was to nudge us to emotional wellness during trying times or to celebrate with us during triumphs.

That evening when I found those coins I knew it was Heaven sent, a miracle no logical thinker would believe. I fondly remembered how, as a little girl, I was constantly asking my mother for “change” for the ice-cream truck, for my piggy bank, and so many other little things I wanted at that time, loving the jingle the coins made in the palm of my hand. My mother would always smile as she went in her purse and doled it out if she had it.   

I allowed my adult self to accept that miracles still happen, that they go beyond human explanation, and my mother had sent me one.  

I tore a piece of paper, dated it January 18, 2024, and wrote: “Confirmation of my miracles.”

I then took that piece of paper and my sixty-eight cents and put it in a small pouch in my nightstand drawer so I would never forget to be open for those miracles, those coins from Heaven from my mother found in random places.  

So, thanks Tabitha Brown, “sister friend” in my head for sharing your story about your mother and the dimes. Now I have a similar one to tell all those who knew and loved her (and even perfect strangers!), hoping it stirs their heart. To tell those hoping if they, too, have lost someone, that if their hearts skip a sorrowful beat whenever they think of them, that they look for palpable signs from that person around them—miracles Heaven sent. 

What miracles have you received?