Parenting

"Love" is the most powerful and magic element in this world! No words can describe it well. You can only feel it when you are giving it or receiving it...So begin love yourself and love others today! You can be an Guardian Angel!

Find Angel

Plant a garden that blossoms and grows

Touch the petals of a delicate rose

Wink at a star in the darkness of night

Smile at the moon shining so bright

Fly with angels through the clouds above

Take a journey on the wings of love

Embrace the heart closest to you

Make a wish and it'll come true

Talk with angels in a whispering voice

Love a child by chance or by choice

Follow your heart to the place you belong

Dance to the rhythm of an angel's song

A flight with the angels, hand in hand

Floating on air to a mystical land

A billion stars in a faraway place

The sparkling eyes of an angel's face

Moisten your eyes with a happy tear

Dream the dreams that children share

Take a journey to the heavens above

And soar with angels on the wings of love

May every child far and wide

Feel a soft caress and know inside

Their own sweet worth on this earth

As gifts from above on the wings of love.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glint on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain;
I am the gently falling autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift, uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft star that shines at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there; I did not die.

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes blue as the sea. "Hello," she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child. "I'm building," she said. "I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring. "Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of the sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by. "That's a joy," the child said.
"It's what?" I asked. "It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy," she replied.
The bird went glissading down the beach. "Good-bye joy," I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up. "Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson." "Mine's Wendy,... and I'm six." "Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said. In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me. "Come again, Mrs. P," she called. " We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat. The never-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?" "What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance. "I don't know, You say." came bubbling forth. "How about charades?" I asked sarcastically. The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is." "Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. "Where do you live?" I asked. "Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?" I asked, wondering WHY she wasn't there now. "I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation." She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood even to greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked. I turned on her and shouted, "Because my mother died!"-and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child? "Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day." "Yes, and yesterday and the day before that and--oh, go away!" I replied.
"Did it hurt?" she asked. "Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself. "When she died?" she replied. "Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn-looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was." "Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in," she replied. "Wendy talked of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please accept my apologies." "Not at all, she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. "Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you." Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught. "She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly...." Her voice faltered. "She left something for you...if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MRS. P printed in bold, childish letters.
Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues~a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten how to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I mumbled over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words~one for each year of her life~that speak to me of inner harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand~who taught me the gift of love.

By Judith S. Johnessee

I'm not sure how Jesse got to my clinic. He didn't look old enough to drive although his body had begun to broaden and he moved with the grace of young manhood. His face was open and direct. When I walked into the waiting room, Jesse was lovingly petting his cat through the open door of the carrier on his lap. With a schoolboy's faith in me, he brought in his sick cat in for me to mend. The cat was a tiny thing, exquisitely formed, with a delicate skull and beautiful markings. She looked like she was about 15 years old, give or take a year. I could see how her spots and stripes and her fierce, bright face had evoked the image of a tiger in a child's mind, and Tigress she had become. Age had dimmed the bright green fire of her eyes and there was a dullness there now, but she was still elegant and self-possessed. She greeted me with a friendly rub against my hand. I began to ask questions to determine what had brought these two to see me. Unlike most adults, the young man answered simply and directly. Tigress had a normal appetite until recently, when she began to vomit a couple of times a day. Now she was not eating at all and was withdrawn and sullen. She had also lost a pound which is a lot when you weigh only six. Stroking Tigress, I told her how beautiful she was while I examined her. I looked in her mouth, listened to her heart and lungs, and felt her stomach. Then I found it; a tubular mass in mid-abdomen. Tigress politely tried to slip away. She did not like the mass being handled. I looked at the fresh-faced teen and back at the cat he probably had all his life. I was going to have to tell him that his beloved companion had a tumor. Even if it was surgically removed, she would probably survive less than a year, and might need weekly chemotherapy to last that long. It would all be difficult and expensive. So I was going to have to tell him that his cat was likely to die. And there he was, all alone.

It seemed he was about to learn one of life's toughest lessons: that death is something that happens to every living thing. It is an omnipresent part of life. How death is first experienced can be life-forming, and it seemed that I was going to be the one to guide him through the first. I did not want to make any mistakes. It had to be done perfectly, or he might end up emotionally scarred. It would have been easy to shirk this task and summon a parent. But when I looked at his face, I could not do it. He knew something was wrong. I could not just ignore him. So I talked to Jesse as Tigress's rightful owner and told him as gently as I could what I had found, and what it meant. As I spoke, Jesse jerked convulsively away from me, probably so I could not see his face, but I had seen it begin to twist as he turned. I sat down and turned to Tigress, to give Jesse some privacy, and I stroked her beautiful old face while I discussed the alternatives with him: I could do a biopsy of the mass, let her fade away at home, or give her an injection that would put her to sleep. Jesse listened carefully and nodded. He said he didn't think she was very comfortable anymore, and he didn't want her to suffer. He was trying very hard. The pair of them broke my heart. I offered to call a parent and explain what was going on. Jesse gave me his father's number. I went over everything again with the father while Jesse listened and petted his cat. Then I let the father speak to his son. Jesse paced and gestured and his voice broke a few times, but when he hung up, he turned to me with dry eyes and said they decided to put her to sleep. No arguing, no denial, no hysteria, just acceptance of the inevitable. I could see, though, how much it was costing him. I asked him if he wanted to take her home overnight to say good bye, but he said no. He just wanted to be alone with her for a few minutes. I left them and went to sign out the barbiturate I would use ease her into a painless sleep.

I could not control the tears streaming down my face, or the grief I felt welling up inside for Jesse, who had become a man so quickly and so alone. I waited outside the exam room. In a few minutes he came out and said he was ready. I asked him if he wanted to stay with her. He looked surprised, but I explained that it is often easier to observe how peaceful it was than to forever wonder what actually happened. This was the finest gift you could give, I said, to assume another's pain so that a loved one might rest. He nodded. He understood. Something was missing, though. I did not feel I had completed my task. It came to me suddenly that though I had asked him to become a man instantly, and he had done so with grace and strength, he was still a young boy. I held out my arms and asked him if he needed a hug. He did indeed, and in truth, so did I.

By Adonaset

The village was preparing to pack up and leave their winter camp and go to the summer place of planting. The old chief called his son to him, and told him that the winter had left him tired and unable to carry the basket that was filled with the seeds of law. The seeds had been placed in the basket by the Great Creator, and these seeds taught the People how to live according to the Great Creator's laws of harmony. The seeds contained the laws that would maintain harmony within the People. These were called the Seeds of Tradition, and they were very sacred. The seeds must be carefully carried to the summer place of planting and planted there for the next generation. The chief's son picked up the basket and placed it on his shoulder, and led the village towards the summer place of planting. As he walked the basket seemed to get heavier and heavier, and more and more difficult for the young man to carry. He shifted the basket from one shoulder to the other, but still the basket was a great burden for him to carry. The young man could no longer carry the basket on his shoulders, so he decided to drag the basket on the ground behind him. The young man continued to lead the People towards the summer place of planting, pulling the basket in back of him. The bottom of the basket began to wear away, and some of the seeds began to fall through the bottom. As more and more of the seeds fell through, the basket got lighter and lighter. This made the task of pulling the basket much easier, and the young man was happy. By the time they arrived at the summer place of planting, the basket was empty. The last part of the journey had been made easier for the young man, but there were no seeds of tradition to plant for the next generation. The People turned and looked back in the direction they had come from, and they saw that the seeds had taken hold and were growing where they had fallen from the basket. Will we go back and reharvest the seeds and make the basket heavy and difficult to carry again, or will we continue to carry an empty basket to give to the next generation?

By Robin B. Allsup
Our comfortable, middle-class house has a fenced-in yard where little Bobby enjoys playing. It is equipped with sandbox alongside a metal swing set with a teeter-totter and slide attached. His mother has landscaped the garden creating a delightful atmosphere for our family to spend our weekends relaxing in the warmth of the San Diego sun.
Eight-year old Bobby is a defiant schemer. Like other children, he believes he outsmarts his dimwitted parents and takes pride in doing so. His loving, comforting parents never did the things he does so they could not possibly suspect him of such things. After all, we can never tell our children some of the things we did when we were their ages. This one seems to push the limit with his father more than his mother, probably because he is the quieter parent. What Bobby doesn't consider at his tender age is that Dad is more clever than he.
One sunny and warm day, he tested dear ol' Dad again. The infraction, itself, is irrelevant, but the punishment is quite amusing, in retrospect. Dad confronted Bobby with his crime.
"Do you remember me telling you about this before, Bobby?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Then why did you do it again, son, after the last time," Dad asked, hoping to reason with him.
"I don't know," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"What do you think your punishment should be," Dad asked, thinking he would remember his own penalty longer than a parent-awarded one.
His face lit up like he had struck a gold mine and Dad could read his expression like a book. He seemed to be thinking, "When does a kid choose his own punishment?" He looked as if he thought Dad was joking or had lost his mind. Either way, he knew this was his lucky day and he intended to take full advantage of it. In his young mind, his peaceful Dad was a pushover and he perceived this asset as a weakness.
With a sly grin, Bobby replied, "My punishment should be to play in the backyard!" Dad chuckled at the thought, though he fully expected such a response from this impudent little person. He had already thought a step ahead of him and decided to play along with his game.
Beaming from ear to ear and thinking he wheedled out of this one, Bobby ran out the back door to play. Dad looked out of the window from time to time to see him swinging, sliding, and building a sand castle. After about ten minutes, the very thing happened that he knew must sooner or later; he finished playing and wanted to come indoors. When he came up the steps and opened the back door, Dad pointed to the back yard and said, "You have to play outside. You said that's what your punishment should be."
The expression on his face changed immediately from cheer to shock. The danger lights blinked and the sirens sounded in his head when he realized his old dad had outsmarted him. His ego was bruised and the tears began to well up in his eyes. Dad's heart sank but he had to be firm with him as he believed this method of discipline to be superior to spanking, and this case proved that.
"Go back outside and play," Dad told him. Bobby closed the door and sat on the back steps while Mom and Dad listened to his wailing, hollering, and foot stomping on the steps, as he expressed his frustration and hurt feelings. Playing in the back yard wasn't so much fun anymore. The worst thing about it, for Bobby, was that it was his choice of punishment.
Two more children have enriched our family since then, and all of us have laughed about this story many times since then. I make two important points with this form of discipline; it is memorable, and no violence was involved. I hope that more parents will attempt to reason with their children and teach them peaceful conflict resolution. If trauma were the best way to teach children, violent families would have the most well-behaved children.

My name is Misty, I am but three
my eyes are swollen, I can not see
I must be bad at the lessons I learn
for I am punished with cigarette burns.
I don't know why I feel so bad
for I am hated by mom and dad
to them I am nothing but an expensive joke
they need money for their speed and coke.
An accident--yes that's the word
again and again that phrase I hear
the house is dark, my folks are gone.
Be quiet now! I hear a car
Daddy is back from Charlie's bar.
I hear him cuss. My name is called.
I squeeze up tight against the wall.
Oh God, let this end
this pain he is putting me in.
My name is Misty
I am but three
last night my daddy murdered me
Thank you, God, for answering my plea.

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Be a guardian angel!

By Minister Penny Priddy
We accept responsibility for children
who put chocolate fingers everywhere
who like to be tickled
who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants
who erase holes in math workbooks
who can never find their shoes

And we accept responsibility for those
who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire
who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers
who have never counted potatoes
who are born in places we wouldn't be caught dead
who never go to the circus
who live in an x-rated world
We accept responsibility for children
who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions
who sleep with the dog and bury goldfish
who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money
who cover themselves with Band Aids and sing off key
who slurp their soup
And we accept responsibility for those
who never get dessert
who have no safe blanket to drag behind them
who watch their parents watch them die
who can't find any bread to steal
who can't have any rooms to clean up
whose pictures aren't on anyone's dresser
whose monsters are real
We accept responsibility for children
who spend their allowance before Tuesday
who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food
who like ghost stories
who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse the tub
who get visits from the tooth fairy
who don't like to be kissed in front of the car pool
who squirm in church and scream in the phone
whose tears sometimes make us laugh and whose smiles can make us cry.
And we accept responsibility for those
whose nightmares come in the daytime
who never eat anything
who have never seen a dentist
who aren't spoiled by anybody
who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep
who live and move but have no being
And we accept responsibility for children who want to be carried
and for those who must
for those we never give up on
and for those who don't get a second chance
for those we mother
and for those who will grab the hand
of anybody kind enough to offer it.

I love you! I love you all the time and always! There is nothing that will make me stop loving you. Nothing you could do or say or think will ever change that.

You are amazing! I look at you with wonder! Not just at what you can do, but who you are. There is no one like you. No one!

It's all right to cry. People cry for all kinds of reasons: when they feel hurt, sad, glad, or worried; when they are angry, afraid, or lonely. Big people cry too. I do.

You've made a mistake. That was wrong. People make mistakes. I do. Is it something we can fix? What can we do? It's all over. You can start fresh. I know you are sorry. I forgive you.

You did the right thing. That was scary or hard. Even though it wasn't easy, you did it. I am proud of you; you should be too.
I'm sorry. Forgive me. I made a mistake.

You can change your mind. It's good to decide, but it is also fine to change.

What a great idea! You were really thinking! How did you come up with that? Tell me more. Your mind is clever!
That was kind. You did something helpful and thoughtful for that person. That feels good inside. Thank you!
I have a surprise for you. It's not your birthday. It's for no reason at all. Just a surprise, a little one, but a surprise.

I can wait. We have time. You don't have to hurry this time.

What would you like to do? It's your turn to pick. You have great ideas. It's important to follow your special interests.
Tell me about it. I'd like to hear more. And then what happened? I'm listening.
I'm right here. I won't leave without saying good-bye. I am watching you. I am listening to you.

Please and Thank You. These are important words. If I forget to use them, will you remind me?
I missed you. I think about you when we are not together!

Just try. A little bit. One taste, one step. You might like it. Let's see. I'll help you if you need it. I think you can do it. Life is a great adventure!

I'll help you. I heard you call me, here I am. How can I help you? If we both work together, we can get this done. I know you can do it by yourself, but I'm glad to help since you asked.

What do you wish for? Even if it's not yet time for birthday candles and we don't have a wishbone, it's still fun to hear about what you wish for, hope for, and dream about.
I remember when... I will never forget... When you were little... I will always remember the time... I loved you then, too...I always have a picture of you in my mind.