Lately, I have been searching for dimes. Sometimes, when we get a temporary melt, items that were inadvertently dropped in the midst of a snowstorm lay abandoned on the ground; saved from evaporation and available for the picking. I am always anticipating a dime or two among the ruins.
A friend of mine, who just lost her beloved brother, shared with me the importance of dimes. “He believed that every time we find a dime quite unexpectedly, it is a sign that someone in Heaven is thinking of us; sending us a message of love.” I became enchanted with the concept and immediately began the search. I kept my head lowered, my eyes sweeping the ground, floors, jacket pockets, car mats, desk drawers and every other place that I believed a dime might be. I found a few but the circumstances were not outstanding and not comparable to my friend’s experiences.
The next time I spoke with my friend, she shared her most recent dime discovery. While moving a large appliance in her brother’s restaurant, the only thing lingering beneath was one single dime. My friend’s eyes were moist with love. “Even if it is not really a message from Heaven, there is great joy in the notion,” she said. I agreed completely and immediately resumed my intense search for my own dime; my own message from above.
I travel to my office in Presque nearly every weekday, via Route 1. There is an area of that well known highway known as Death Valley; just before the Presque Isle/Caribou town line. This is where my mother was born and where I spent a great deal of my childhood. When I reach this portion of my daily journey, I always think of my parents, grandparents, Uncle Bill, and other relatives who are no longer on this earth. Out of habit and hope, I always place my hand in the empty passenger seat beside me. To me, my extended hand is a way of reaching out to them just to let them know how much I miss them; how much I love them.
On this particular morning, as I passed through that familiar valley, I placed my ungloved hand down on the seat and my fingertips immediately recognized the sleek contours of a dime. I picked it up from the seat and held it tightly in my hand. I glanced down quickly and there were no other coins on the seat. Hmmmm. Had the 10-cent piece fallen from my change purse? The change purse, by the way, was in my bag — in the backseat! I pondered the possibilities on the way to work, holding that dime securely in my hand all the while.
My friend’s dear brother believed that finding a dime was a message from a departed loved one; a reminder that love and life are eternal. Do those we have lost whisper their love in the wind or on the wings of angels? Do they stay close to us in the form of quickly disappearing shadows or unexplained flashes of light? Do they visit us in our dreams or ride quietly beside us in our cars? Do they watch over us, laugh and weep with us, and share our failures and our conquests?
The buying power of a dime does not go far these days, of that there is no doubt. But perhaps the dime should be credited with an accomplishment of such great magnitude that it cannot be measured; the journey to Heaven and back.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
