At 8 a.m. on the Friday of my post-chemo appointment, I stepped out of the elevator in the Yawkey Building at MGH, and the gleam of a copper penny caught my eye. Out of habit I murmured, “Thanks, Grandma.” I usually hold her accountable for most pennies since they normally appear while shopping or in places that I know she would’ve loved to have seen. And looking over the rooftops of red brick buildings in Boston, with the gold dome of Beacon Hill in the center, this seemed like one of those places.
The early morning sun made the penny sparkle. I looked up and saw the sun bouncing off the dome of Beacon Hill, expecting to see a ray of gold spinning off the dome and landing on the penny. After scooping it up, that incredible shine made me think: That penny was from more than one angel. If my tribe of angels is with me, I’m thankful. They hold no hard feelings toward me for my declaration back in July: “I know they are waiting for me on the other side, but I have too much yet left to do here before I see them!”
That night at home, I emptied my pockets and found the penny. It’s dirty and dull, nothing like the shiny penny from early that morning. My heavenly tribe, those winged warriors danced that day. They fluttered above and around that penny, pumping their wings so hard that bits of gold light dripped down and transformed a dingy penny into a mighty brilliance. Touched by angelic grace. Warm and sweet. Twinged with pain.