Pennies From Heaven: Chapter Two

A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post called “Pennies from Heaven.” If you missed it, here’s a quick summary: My paternal grandma and grandpa died within weeks of each other fourteen years ago. At that time in my life, I was so caught up in substance abuse that I didn’t see my grandparents in the last years of their lives, nor did I go to their funerals. Because of the shame I felt over that, I hadn’t gone to visit their graves. But all these years later, I received one last gift from my grandpa. His wish was that all of the pocket change he collected—mostly pennies—be divided up amongst his grandchildren. It was a long and arduous process for my aunt, but she fulfilled his wish, and all of us grandkids got a mason jar filled with his pocket change. Grandpa taught me many lessons, but one of them was to pick up every penny you find, because they add up. It’s a lesson that stuck with me—I have picked up countless pennies over my lifetime. So when I got the mason jar of Grandpa’s pocket change, I promised myself that I would finally visit his and Grandma’s gravesite and leave a penny there.

This is the next chapter in that story.

Last weekend, Monty and I and my parents took a short road trip to see a few different places that were related to Grandpa. The first place we went to was Cope, which is eighty miles south of Haxtun, where we live now. Cope is the little town where my grandpa’s family homesteaded in the 1800’s and where Grandpa lived as a child. When Dad and Mom and Monty and I got to Cope, we stopped so we could see the site of the original homestead. There’s a big house there, and part of it was built by my ancestors. I had expected to feel something when I saw it—some frisson of recognition or a sense of my grandpa’s presence. But I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything at the cemetery where my great great grandparents are buried, either, though I enjoyed getting to see their gravesite. After the cemetery, we had a picnic in the park in Cope. As we were eating, I looked down and found a penny.

We left Cope and drove about sixty miles northeast to Wray, the place where my dad spent most of his childhood and where my siblings and I used to spend a week every summer. We drove past my grandparents’ old house, and then we headed up into the buttes that surround Wray. After fourteen years of avoiding it, it was finally time for me to go to the cemetery where my grandparents are buried. We drove through the cemetery gates, parked our cars, and went to the gravesite. And I saw it—the headstone with my grandparents’ names. My eyes filled with tears as I put the penny I’d found in Cope on the ground in front of the headstone. I stood and stared at it, at those beloved names, now cold and unyielding in their marble permanence.

I turned and walked away, back to our car. I looked back one final time, but instead of seeing the grave, I saw my dad, who has my grandpa’s eyes and quiet strength. I saw my mom, who prayed for me through all those years of addiction, never doubting that someday I’d get to the other side of it. I saw Monty, who stood by me through every high and low, fighting for me when I couldn’t fight for myself. And, as I turned to get in the car, I saw myself reflected in the car window. And I finally felt the frisson of recognition I’d expected to feel in Cope—not of Grandpa’s presence, but of my family’s and mine. Monty and my family are still here, and they’re the ones who’ve forgiven me for the years of pain I caused them. And I’m still here. After all those years I spent trying to destroy myself, I’m still here.

In the last few days, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about those moments at the cemetery. And I’ve realized that sometimes, it’s simply too late. Too late to be forgiven for the mistakes I made. Too late for absolution. The forgiveness I so desperately wanted can’t come from Grandpa. It has to come from me. It’s not going to be a quick, overnight process. It’s a matter of telling myself, every time those feelings of guilt and shame resurface, that I made my amends and did what I could. I kept a promise I made to Grandpa, but more importantly, I kept a promise I made to myself. So I . . . cope. I cope with my feelings as I forgive myself. And I remind myself to stop looking back and start looking up. For grace. For the unconditional love of my God who has long since forgiven me and given me a whole new life. That’s what Grandpa would have wanted for me. It’s what Monty and my family want for me. And I can finally say without shame that, with every fiber of my being, it’s what I want for myself.