In 1842, fleeing from the Famine, my great-grandmother emigrated from Ireland to New York with her parents. They took with them a crucifix that had at that time already been in the family for generations.
They didn't have much luck as my great-great grandfather was killed by a runaway taxi carriage and his widow and children were cheated out of their compensation money by his brother. (Who, incidentally, later joined the FBI and was riddled by bootleggers on the Canadian border).
Anyway, whatever they had, they sold it, in order to raise the price of their fare home. They literally came back to Ireland with nothing only the clothes on their backs and that crucifix.
I recently restored it (the wood had become brittle and the effigy was plastered in gold paint when I removed it from my late sister's house. I got a nice bit of dark mahogany and stripped Jesus back to bare metal before painting him silver. It looks about as well as it ever has done, I think).
It's a big old lummox of a thing and of no great intrinsic value (more suited to a convent than on the bookcase of a suburban living room, if truth be told). For all the prayers my mother offered it, she spent her life, working her socks off and my sister died far too young; so it's hardly a good luck charm but, as you might imagine, I could never bring myself to part with it.