Last night one of my kids called with a question about my infancy. How did I get my nickname when I was just a few days old? Of course the only information I have came from my own parents. My memory is pretty good, but doesn't go quite that far back.
Having just watched "Toy Story 3" (FANTASTIC movie!), I had just been mulling over the passage of time and kids growing up. As I lay in bed, in one of those moments quiet enough so you become conscious of things like your own heartbeat, I thought about my infant self. Here I am now, feeling my heart beat away, the same one that used to be a baby heart in that infant of 50 years ago. Beat, beat, beat, steady onward, never stopping to rest, even for a second, for all those years.
Yesterday I interviewed an 83-year-old woman for my column for the paper. There she is with the same heart that beat in a baby long ago, and in a little girl who learned to sew when she was 2 years old, then grew and had children, and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and moved into a care facility. Still beating.
That's a lot of work. Kind of amazing.
Let's give eternal honor to the beating of our hearts.
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