Chapter: The Penny in the Hallway

The Penny in the Hallway

I don’t remember what I was walking to.

I just remember looking down and seeing it.

A penny.

Right there in the hallway—heads up, resting like it had been placed instead of dropped.

The building was loud that day. Kids talking, teachers moving. The noise of normal. But everything got quiet in me when I saw that penny.

Bella used to say, “God leaves pennies when He wants to remind you He’s near.”

She didn’t say it as a metaphor. She said it like it was fact. Like it was just one of the rules of the universe. God speaks through stillness. He reminds through pennies.

I bent down and picked it up.

It wasn’t shiny. It wasn’t even warm. But it carried weight.

Because that day? That hallway? I was walking through the middle of the biggest storm of my life. The kind of storm where you can’t explain what’s happening, you can’t defend yourself, and you can’t predict what’s coming next.

But you can choose how to walk through it.

And I walked holding a penny in my hand.

I thought about Bella. I thought about how she used to leave them for me—on my desk, in my gym bag, in the car cupholder. Quiet reminders that the world is still sacred, even when it feels upside down.

So I kept that penny.

I didn’t tell anyone I found it. Didn’t wave it around like a sign. I just held it.

And later that day, when everything inside me wanted to run or cry or yell, I reached into my pocket and pressed it into my palm. One cent. One whisper. One quiet reminder that I am not alone.

Closing Note:

If you’ve ever found a penny at just the right time, maybe it wasn’t random.

Maybe it was placed.

And maybe the message was simple:

I see you. I’m with you. Keep walking.