My Lucky Coin

I have an 1890 Morgan silver dollar that, on the surface, is just a piece of metal. Heavy in the hand, worn smooth along the edges, the kind of coin collectors recognize instantly. But to me, it has never been about silver content, mint marks, or condition. That coin has lived more life than most people ever realize.

It was the first dollar my grandfather earned after coming to the United States from Italy around the turn of the 19th century. I don’t know the exact day he arrived or the exact job he took, but I can picture the moment clearly anyway. A young man stepping into a new country with little more than his hands, his faith, and a belief that work mattered. That dollar wasn’t handed to him casually. It represented sweat, fear, pride, and survival. It meant he had crossed an ocean and proven, at least to himself, that he belonged here.

My grandfather was a stone cutter. Hard, physical work. Dust in the air. Grit everywhere. He likely carried that coin in his pocket while he worked, day after day, with sand and stone dust grinding against it. That would explain the worn surface. In 1897, the coin still would have been relatively new, yet it already bore the marks of time and labor. It wasn’t age that softened it — it was work. Honest, relentless work. The same kind of work that shaped his hands and his back, and probably his outlook on life.

He carried that coin with him his entire life. Not in a display case. Not locked away. On him. Through good years and hard ones. Through building a family. Through disappointments no one ever talked about. Through moments of quiet gratitude and moments of silent worry. He never told anyone about it. Not his wife. Not his children. It was his private reminder that he had already done something hard once, and could do it again.

On his deathbed, when there wasn’t much left to say that mattered, he gave the coin to my father. He told him it was a lucky coin, and that he should carry it too. My grandfather wasn’t a man given to sentiment or superstition, which is part of what makes that moment stick with me. He wasn’t talking about luck the way people throw the word around. He was talking about continuity. About remembering where you came from when life tries to tell you otherwise.

My father carried that coin quietly, just like his father had. No speeches. No rituals. Life moved on. Years passed. Then in October of 2004, the year before my father died, we took a trip together to a flea market in Leesport, Pennsylvania. That morning, over breakfast, he told me we’d do what we always did — hit the flea market first, then stop at the diner on Route 61 in Leesport afterward. It was said casually, like a routine so familiar it didn’t need explaining. Just another small tradition layered on top of countless others.

It was a normal day. Two guys walking rows of tables, poking through old tools and forgotten things. The kind of day you don’t know is important while it’s happening.

After the flea market, we sat in that diner on Route 61. Coffee cups on the table. The low hum of conversation around us. Nothing about the moment felt staged or important. And that’s where my father reached into his pocket and took out the coin. He told me the story I’m telling now. Then he slid it across the table and gave it to me. No ceremony. No buildup. Just a simple transfer of something that clearly meant more to him than he was willing to say out loud. I remember the weight of it in my palm, heavier than I expected, like it was carrying more than silver.

I’ve carried it ever since.

Here’s the part that complicates things for me. I don’t believe in lucky charms. I don’t believe objects have power. I’ve never believed that carrying something in your pocket can bend the arc of your life, protect you from loss, or tilt outcomes in your favor. To me, that crosses into territory that belongs to God, not to metal, rituals, or superstition. If something good happens, it isn’t because a coin allowed it. If something bad happens, it isn’t because a charm failed.

I’ve lived long enough to know that life doesn’t reward belief in objects. It rewards responsibility, decisions, discipline, and grace — often in ways we don’t recognize until much later. Assigning power to things can feel comforting, but it can also quietly shift accountability away from where it belongs. I’ve never wanted that. I’ve always believed that whatever direction my life takes is shaped by faith, choices, and providence, not by something I can hold in my hand.

And yet.

Because my father asked me to, I carried it. Because my grandfather believed it mattered, I honored that belief even if I didn’t share it. Over the years, the coin became less about luck and more about obedience. Not obedience in a religious sense, but in a generational one. A quiet agreement between men who didn’t talk much about feelings but understood responsibility.

That coin has been with me through moments I didn’t expect to survive and moments I never thought I’d earn. It’s been in my pocket when I’ve made hard decisions and when I’ve questioned myself. Not because it protected me, and not because it influenced outcomes, but because it reminded me that others before me faced uncertainty without guarantees and kept going anyway.

Now I think about my grandchildren.

One day, they’ll be old enough to understand stories that aren’t fairy tales. Old enough to grasp that inheritance isn’t just money or property, but memory and expectation. I wonder if I should give the coin to one of them. Not because it’s lucky. Not because it will bring success. But because it carries a message that feels increasingly rare: you come from people who showed up, who worked, who endured, and who carried their past with humility rather than noise.

If I do give it, it won’t be on my deathbed. It will be when they’re old enough to hold it and feel the weight, and understand that the real value isn’t what it’s made of. It’s the fact that three generations of men quietly chose to carry something forward rather than let it disappear.

I don’t believe in lucky objects.

But I do believe in stories that deserve to be carried.