Giada And The Eight Beatitudes

She had this yellow flower on top of her head, held back by a yellow band. The flower was cradled by a lock of thin hair. She was held my her mom, facing us while sitting on a pew in church. She looked up the lights hanging from the high ceiling, twinkling like stars, perhaps her innocent mind thought so. She delighted at the sight of them, jumped up and down, her babyspeak can be barely heard with the loud blare of the electric guitar and banging of the drums, the choir singing, 'Morning Has Broken'.

I could not help smiling at the sight of her, and motioned to my daughter seated to my left. Ana understood, and she, too, smiled and let out a tiny giggle, looking at the yellow-flower-headbanded bundle of joy. I was caught between listening to the eight beatitudes in the Gospel today and thinking, 'I want to carry the cute baby.' While I was torn, the cutesy reached out to her great grandmother to her right, with her small hands clumsily touching her Lola's  face. Her great grandma held her tiny hands, kissed them,  took small sniffs from her neck and cheeks. 

I thought of Mike, a friend, and his passing. I felt a tinge of sadness. I recalled this phrase I read somewhere, '...babies are God's opinion that life goes on...' . I thought to myself, a less than a year-old baby bridging life of innocence to that of a life which saw  one too many, in front of me, and it reminded me of the 'in-between'. I did not even get to talk to Mike before he passed. What did I do during those times I had the chance? Was I too busy with work that I could not spare a minute to have peeked in his cubicle when I was at his workplace because I had some other concern?  I regret that. Like I regret many other things I have done. 

After mass, I had the chance to have a photo taken with Giada, that is her name, the yellow-flower-headbanded bundle of joy. I got a sniff of that baby smell, that which cannot be imitated by even the most experienced of chemists working on frangrances put in a bottle. It spoke to me of pureness of heart, as in the Gospel today. Fr. Gilbert said it so aptly, as usual, that pureness is not in that of the physical, but in the newness of being and openness to embrace God's grace. The smell pulled me away from this temptation to dwell in regrets, yet again, and lifted me to hope, to live each day counting seconds and not days or years. To live, here, now, in the moment.