by Anamaria Scaperlanda Biddick, for the Sooner Catholic
I put away the little baby clothes yesterday. Tiny newborn onesies, yellow and pink, worn with a light summer swaddle while my daughter napped in a swing. A white and pink flowered nightgown, her first clothes. An impossibly small navy romper, her first Mass outfit.
She’s not even 6 months old, and already the nostalgia for things past has set in! I think of the day she was born; her striking awareness and curiosity already evident as she calmly looked around the room, even before taking a newborn snooze. The sweet memories of her early days, napping in the wooden cradle as her sisters played around her, fill my head and pierce my heart with their intense perfection.
Yet, those days spent basking in the newness of her, were spent, at the same time, in anticipation: waiting for the first long stretch of sleep, for regular naps, for rolling over, for walking and first words, for discovering who she is going to be.
I want the impossible: for her to remain small and to grow.
Nowhere is the nature of this desire more evident than in the best moments when my heart aches with a sadness only known during perfect beauty. Everything is at its best, near perfection, and my heart is stirred to want more.
My desire is infinite. Sometimes this desire manifests itself in simple wants: more clothes, prettier dishes, a better computer, to travel, to read every good book, to discover more about the world. But, nowhere is it more evident than when beauty evokes a deeper longing – when perfection, far from bringing peace, disturbs.
My desire is infinite, because ultimately it is a desire for the Infinite.
It’s easy to try to fulfill these desires through my own efforts – to divert myself from the depths of the desire by immediately moving on to the next thing, unconsciously assuming that it will satisfy. Conversely, I stifle desires that aren’t possible rather than go to the bottom of them, distracting myself with all the small pleasures the world offers. In so doing, I ignore the way that I was made: with an infinite yearning that points to something beyond.
That something infinite entered our finite world in the form of a small baby: humble, weak and vulnerable. The only answer to the yearning at the depth of my heart is God-made man, the Infinite in tangible form. The Christian mystery answers my desire, opening possibilities for newness and love.
The knowledge of the incarnation changes everything, allowing for a different way of living. As I approach the Christmas mystery, I use my desire as a starting point for the traditional Advent devotions. Through the prayers of the Church, handed down to us from generations past, the truth of God-made-man enters my reality.
I also can seek the Infinite in the way that he entered humanity: in what is small and humble. Rather than attempting to satisfy my desires with an endless pursuit of goods – another nice experience, another beautiful piece of clothing, a new app – I look here, in the humble circumstances of my life, for an encounter with the divine.