Spotlight: In Our Children's Eyes by Fran Hafey
I just had the pleasure of receiving another Grandchild in this world, last week and she is such a joy. I have a Granddaughter and Grandson also by my oldest daughter and each one of them holds a special charm, magic and gift in their hearts and minds.
I am very happy to be a part of their lives and that my daughter is open minded to letting them be who they are and develop in their own ways.
As I sat one night this past week, holding my newest Granddaughter, I watched her sleep. She would twitch, her eyes move and she would sigh now and then. She would also make faces, smile and move her arms and legs.
I have seen many newborn babies, not just with my own three children and my three Grandchildren, but I also worked in a hospital in a newborn nursery caring for them at night. I was able to hold them, feed them, share love with them, assist the nurses and do many other tasks. I truly enjoyed the job. Then I would go home and let them stay with their parents and go on to take care of my own family.
While holding my Granddaughter and watching her movements, I began to wonder what a newborn thinks or dreams about. Do they actually recall the birthing process, remember sounds from the womb, or recall past lives?
What better time to remember than shortly after being born?
If they could only tell us what is going through their minds and what they saw, or see and remember? It's a shame that as time slips on that we lose some of those memories. There are ways to recall them perhaps in hypnosis, but not all will remember.
I think about how everyone of us went through a birthing process, whether it was through the most normal of vaginal births coming through the birth canal or by caesarian. We all have memories of this and some may have been traumatized or seemingly so, by it. If you really stop to think about it, why wouldn't we? Actually, being born is a tough job.
What a thing to go through, coming from a dark, liquid, place to a bright, noisy, drier place where we now have hunger pains and need to be totally cared for.
Isn't it amazing? I truly know birth is a Miracle and its sad how many people just take it for granted.
I look into my Grandchildren's eyes and I know that they don't remember being born, maybe in their dreams or in a far away place, but normally, people don't.
In their eyes I do see life and possibilities. I see and feel love and the intelligence of Indigo children that were born at a time when their souls are old and are here to help us all to grow and learn more of how to care for Mother earth.
I see this newborn, I hold her in my hands and know that she is from yet another generation, called the crystal children, that are also here to help us all change and ascend to yet an even higher level. They are all our teachers and they have so much to teach us and we have so much to show them.
Be good to the children and know that they are our future and that we must also be good examples to them too. They may look at us, at times and wonder just "who is who" here on this planet and who really are the smarter ones.
Take the time to hold them close and look into their eyes and souls and know that they have so much to share with us.
About the author:
Fran Hafey is a Spiritual Counselor, Writer and Healer. She provides guidance and inspiration via her Website, groups and newsletter through the Internet and other Resources. To read more of her articles visit the Author's Website: http://Mystickblue.com or http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SpiritualPathways/join She's currently working on publishing her own books about love, inspiration, peace, magic and nature stories for Children of all ages.
A Second Helping: Favorite Child by Erma Bombeck
Every mother has a favorite child.
She cannot help it. She is only human. I have mine.
That child for whom I feel a special closeness. The one I reach out to in a rare moment, to share a love that no one else could possibly understand.
My favorite child is the one who was too sick to eat the ice cream at his birthday party, had measles at Christmas and wore leg braces to bed because he toed in.
She was the fever in the middle of the night, the asthma attack, the child in my arms at the emergency ward.
My favorite child spent Christmas alone away from the family, was stranded after the game with a gas tank on E, lost money for his class ring.
My favorite child is the one who fell asleep over an assignment on China that the teacher never bothered to grade, flunked her driver's test five times and told us she could hardly wait to get out of the house.
My favorite child is the one I punished for lying, grounded for insensitivity to other people's feelings and informed he was a royal pain to the entire family.
My favorite child slammed doors in frustration, cried when she didn't think I saw her, withdrew and said she could not talk to me.
My favorite child always needed a haircut, had hair that wouldn't curl, had no date for Saturday night and a car that cost $600 to fix.
My favorite child said dumb things for which there were no excuses. He was selfish, immature, bad-tempered and self-centered. He was vulnerable, lonely, unsure of what he was doing in this world... and quite wonderful.
The one I've loved the most is the one whom I have watched struggle and - because the struggle was his - done nothing.
All mothers have their favorite child. It is always the same one, the one who needs you at the moment for whatever reason - to cling to, to shout at, to hurt, to hug, to flatter, to reverse charges to, to unload on, to use - but mostly to be there.
About the author:
Erma Bombeck, one of the most popular newspaper columnists in the United States and the author of numerous best-selling books, died in San Francisco on Monday, April
22, 1996 from complications following a kidney transplant.
From the Feedback Button
An unidentified angel visitor sent the following:
May your life always be filled with friends and family, and may each day bring you the pleasures and deep rewards of love and friendship. May your heart always be at peace. In unsteady and uncertain times, may you always have something to hold on to as a source of comfort and peace in your thoughts, your beliefs and your life. May your efforts always be rewarded, and may you experience the joy of achievement and always have the excitement of meaningful challenges. May you always find the things that matter most to you fulfilling. May your responsibilities still leave you with the time and freedom for the people and activities that provide you the deepest satisfaction. May the end of every journey provide a chance for reflection and appreciation for everyone who helped you and everything you've gained along the way. May you appreciate life. May you always have reasons for giving thanks. AMEN (LOVE YA)
Thank you, kind person, whoever you are. I could ask for few greater blessings than this wonderful list!
Click to send your to me right now!
Feature: Thanks For The Time
This has been a busy weekend with a short time to spend at home before going back to work. Please allow me to share a touching story, as told by Bob Perks of www.iwishyouenough.com . Bob is a most interesting writer and speaker, and I encourage you to visit his site for more inspiration. Now, on to the story:
It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man. In the rush of his busy life, Jack had little time to think about the past and often no time to spend with his wife and son.
He was working on his future, and nothing could stop him.
Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser died last night. The funeral is Wednesday." Memories flashed through his mind like an old newsreel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days.
"Jack, did you hear me?"
"Oh, sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since I thought of him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.
"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.
"He's the one who taught me carpentry, I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important...Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.
As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown. Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had no children of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.
The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time.
Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension, a leap through space and time. The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories. Every picture, every piece of furniture....Jack stopped suddenly.
"What's wrong, Jack?" his Mom asked.
"The box is gone," he said.
"What box? " Mom asked.
"There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most,'" Jack said.
It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it.
"Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said. "I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."
It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home from work one day Jack discovered a note in his mailbox.
"Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days," the note read.
Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention.
"Mr. Harold Belser" it read.
Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope. Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside.
"Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to Jack Bennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life."
A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box. There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch.
Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover.
Inside he found these words engraved: "Jack, Thanks for your time! Harold Belser."
"The thing he valued most...was...my time."
Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days.
"Why?" Janet, his assistant asked.
"I need some time to spend with my son," he said.
"Oh, by the way, Janet...thanks for your time!"
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