Parenting
A Journey Through Generations of Magic
by Lila Thompson
Updated: Aug. 3, 2016
Originally Published: Jan. 12, 2005
I first met my partner’s grandparents when I was just 19. As we were leaving their century-old farmhouse, Grandpa Mike approached a kitchen drawer, rummaged through it, and handed me something special.
“Travel safe,” he said, giving my hand a gentle pat, his warm brown eyes sparkling with a charm that seemed to radiate from his very being.
As I looked down, I noticed the small, unassuming stone he had placed in my palm, complete with a hole that ran through it. I nodded knowingly, though I didn’t truly grasp its significance at the time.
Fast forward sixteen years. Two nurses are assisting me as I stand for the first time after giving birth to my daughter. I feel as unsteady as a newborn foal. Suddenly, as one nurse tidies my sheets, something solid clinks to the floor. She bends down to retrieve it.
“Is this yours?” she asks, holding up four similar stones, each threaded with a ribbon. They looked a bit worn and perhaps a tad unsanitary.
Excitedly, I extend my hand. “Yes! That’s mine!” I reply, sensing her curiosity but also recognizing her busy schedule. I decide against explaining the rocks’ meaning—some tales take longer to tell than time allows. I carefully tuck them away.
You see, on that day so long ago when Grandpa Mike gifted me that first stone, my partner explained that these rocks represent an old Irish symbol for safe travels. It was a cherished belief passed down through his family. Since then, I’ve never traveled without one. I couldn’t bear the thought of my daughter embarking on her first journey without her own magical rock.
So when my father-in-law sent four of these stones just before Nora was born, I clutched them closely during the entire birthing process. Through the pain of contractions, the sting of needles, and the overwhelming joy of meeting my daughter, those stones felt like a lifeline.
Recently, my partner’s grandparents both passed away—just eight days apart. Remarkably, they were also born eight days apart, sharing the same number of days on this earth. For 73 years, they loved, nurtured, and raised two sons, enduring the heartache of losing one. They welcomed me into their family with open arms.
In the days following Grandpa Mike’s passing, Grandma Elaine began reminiscing about the son they lost, a pain she had never fully healed from, often neglecting to mention his name. Eventually, she drifted into the comforting haze of dementia. I can only imagine her on that eighth day, purposeful and filled with intention, slipping a small, nondescript rock into her pocket, laying down to rest, perhaps thinking of the last bit of magic that would guide her safely on her final journey.
This article originally appeared on Mamalode.
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Summary:
This touching narrative reflects on the importance of family traditions and symbols that connect generations. Through the journey of a simple rock, the author shares a profound story of love, loss, and the magical moments that shape our lives and the lives of our children.