What a pleasure it is to translate and share with you another beautiful Catholic reflection by Aldo Maria Valli on some quotidian events that most of us take for granted... This is a tribute to his unborn child who nevertheless exists for him and his wife as a person whom they look forward to meeting finally in heaven... Most extraordinary.
Our first creche and
our seventh 'hidden child'
Translated from
December 10, 2017
Every once in a while, it happens. Mostly in the morning, at breakfast. At our old wooden table in the kitchen, before a steaming cup of coffee. And it happened today.
As we chatted of this and that, though mostly of our six children – who are the usual focus of our breakfast conversations – we thought of our baby who was never born. To paraphrase the title of a short story by Guareschi, we call him the seventh clandestine or hidden child.
If he had been born, he would be twenty-five today. I use the masculine pronoun but we never got to know if the baby was a he or a she. But we al ready had a name – if he were male, Tommaso, if female, Benedetta. Names which we decided not to use for those who were born after. Because for us, our seventh clandestine was and is unique, and we thought it was right to do just as sports teams do when they retire the jersey of a champion who has retired. Our seventh clandestine was unique and nobody could be like 'him'.
In fact, neither Santa Subito
[Valli's fond nickname for his wife Serena] nor I have really asked ourselves about our never-born child. It seemed like we didn't have the time, because after we lost 'him' in a spontaneous miscarriage, he was followed immediately by Silvia, our third, then the twins Anna and Paola, and finally, Laura.
But now the children are all grown, and as Santa Subito and myself are approaching old age, we find ourselves looking at each other now and then and sort of say, "But…", which is somewhat a question and somewhat an exclamation, but goes no farther. "But… who knows? What might have been if…?"
We have a very special love for our s'hidden child'. We felt no bitterness at the time. If the good God so willed it, he had a reason, and we are very sure that his plan for us is and always was good for us, the best there can be. So no recriminations, but gratitude for this mysterious grace.
But at this phase in our life, we sometimes feel a retrospective curiosity entwined with special tenderness. What would our Tomasso have been like? Or our Benedetta? Would he or she have loved to read like his/her only brother and his/her five sisters? What would he or she have studied? Would he or she have played an instrument? Would he or she have been a fan of Inter [the soccer club]?
One thing is sure:
Even if he or she had not been born, that baby was and is. That baby was and is a person. Who now surely looks at us, and in the inscrutable way of those who leave us, remains with us.
Yesterday, I set up our first crèche in the manner of my family, and in the next few days, we shall be putting up a second one, according to the tradition in Serena's family. Two crèches, double the joy, double the celebration – it is always a pleasure to double what is beautiful.
While I was setting down the moss, the cardboard hills, the little houses and the Nativity stall, I felt a slight breeze caress me. Like someone had brushed past me. So I turned around – but there was nothing. As I did so, I thought of our seventh child, and I said to him/her that I was glad he or she was there.
Then I called Anna, Paola and Laura to put the finishing touches, and as they placed Mary and Joseph, the ox and the donkey, the shepherds, the sheep, a well, abridge, some geese and hens, the lights, I had the impression that two other eyes were there watching it all, wide open in wonder.
Since the Church 'abolished' the notion of limbo, it is not clear where children like our seventh child are. Sometimes I think there must be a special section in Paradise for them, where they can play as they please, send us kisses and help us set up the crèche. And that perhaps in the highways of heaven, there are crossroads in which these children line up – as do those who bring water and food for cyclists in the Tour de France – to greet the babies destined by God to come down to earth, with a smile and a gaze, telling them as they pass by, "Please bring this to my parents and siblings below". And the descending souls, although busy scrambling to get down into the world, grab the gifts on the fly and do not let go until they land here.
In any case, I already feel a foretaste of when we finally meet. That when we have returned to the house of the Father, there will be a beautiful boy or girl approaching us. Will he/she have the dark eyes of Giovanni, or the clear eyes of Anna and Laura, or the big eyes of Paola? The smile of Giulia, the cute nose of Silvia? Maybe he/she will be a sum of them all. Surely, he/she will be familiar, and when he/she catches our eye, then we will know. And finally, it will be possible to embrace each other. Our seventh child will take us by the hand and say, "Come", and will bring us to see his most beautiful crèche – a living one, and eternal.
GOD BLESS!
Sorry, Signor Valli, to have to post this in the same space as your essay above, but surely you would never put up a creche that just totally spoils the Christmas message, with ill-advised and thoroughly incomprehensible 'additions' to the Christmas story in an attempt to spread an already stale narrative of Bergoglian mercy that's too tiresome for words.
Is this supposed to bring Christmas joy to the beholder?
The first reactions to Pentin's tweet are indicative:
[Modificato da TERESA BENEDETTA 13/12/2017 04:39]