We can never change that life and death are part of being human. Yet, when someone we love passes, it can be hard to accept they’re gone. Even the strongest of Christians feel abandoned as they try to understand how a loving God could allow things that cause so much suffering. And with no concrete communication between heaven and earth, it can be easy to question our faith.

In my journey through grief, I’ve found solace in three extraordinary experiences, where I believe God sent messages to comfort me.

My first experience followed the passing of my brother Lou, a bachelor at age 59 diagnosed with tongue cancer. Lou had just finished his latest chemo treatment and received a promising report that his tumor had shrunk. Three days later, however, he called me. With the tumor restricting his vocal cords, I strained to understand his words. His face was swollen, he was in pain, and he needed treatment for what had become a common side effect to chemo.

I gave the doctor information as quickly as possible, so Lou could get treated. I believed if Lou could hang in there even one more day, we’d get the cure for which we were desperately praying. Lou was given a sedative for a CAT scan. It was 8:38 p.m. He finally looked comfortable and slept.

After the swelling dissipated, I gently lifted his head and placed a rolled-up washcloth under his neck. I arranged pillows around his head and frail body to keep him in that comfortable position. His breathing returned to normal, and the rhythmic beeping from the monitor signified a soothing sleep.

At 11:56 p.m., Lou was admitted for observation, so I felt comfortable going home, a short mile away.

At 2:05 a.m., I got the call. This was it. Lou was dying.

As I entered the hospital, a nurse approached, removed her mask, and stumbled as though someone had brushed up against her. She looked over her shoulder, then, seeing no one there, turned back to me. She reached for my arm, holding me tightly and said, “I’m so sorry. Your brother just passed.”

Devastated, I entered the hospital room where Lou’s body lay. The room felt empty. I touched my brother’s arm. It was obvious his spirit was gone. As the staff directed me to the conference room to make calls, I felt sadness turn to anger. I asked God, who seemed to have abandoned me, why? Why Lou? I couldn’t understand why a loving God would allow such pain, yet I couldn’t entirely let go of the belief I once trusted.

I was sickened that my brother died alone. I was angry Lou hadn’t waited for me.

I sat in the waiting room, not knowing which way to run. That’s when I experienced something unexpected.

Lou’s nurse returned with my brother’s belongings. Her face expressed more awe than sympathy. She said, “Look what we found in your brother’s sock.” She handed me a penny.

I wanted to believe the penny was sent to me from Lou in heaven, but I was also too heartsick and angry to believe in anything so unsubstantiated.

Later that day, I went to Lou’s house to dispose of his lifesaving supplies: feeding tubes, formula, endless bottles of medication. At the early stage of his cancer, he vowed he would never have to rely on such things; yet in his battle for life, he was forced to use them.

I started collecting his laundry. Lou never allowed me to wash his clothes, though I had wanted to do that for him. For me, it would have been a task of love. For him, it signified his losing battle.

When I opened the clothes washer lid, I froze. I found myself staring at a dime.

I began to notice coins everywhere then. A quarter by Dad’s recliner. A penny by Mom’s chair. I found five coins in a med bag, and, like solving a puzzle, I concluded there was one coin for each remaining sibling.

When I got home that night, I Googled “pennies from heaven” and found numerous stories of people who believed coins were signs from loved ones, messages of love and reassurance from the afterlife.

I began to consider the possibility, which opened my heart to another possibility: It was the nurse stumbling from nothing in the hallway. What if when Lou’s earthly body died, his soul rushed from his room, toward the light, his energy literally pushing the dear nurse aside as she approached me?

As my belief strengthened, I began to see those coins as a reminder of Lou’s enduring love and the presence of something greater. I found peace knowing that love transcends even in the most heartbreaking of goodbyes.

I chose to have faith.