When you enter a tunnel, you see only darkness, shadows. The longer it stretches, the more fear, anguish, loneliness, tension, panic can grip you—even the shadow of death. But the moment you glimpse light at the far end, everything becomes energy. You run. You run toward that light.
That was 2020 for me. For millions of others too, each shaped by where they lived, their family and their place in the world.
My family and I stepped into that tunnel in the middle of 2020. Let me introduce my treasures: my brother Giorgio, sixty years old, my sister Cristina, fifty-four—both with profound disabilities, one hundred percent—and me. Around us, dozens and dozens of animals, since we live in the countryside. In March, as everyone knows, this small monster of a virus arrived and locked us all away. Everything stopped. Everything closed. Everything went dark. From one day to the next, without warning, we found ourselves transported into the tunnel. Suddenly we had to leave behind all the things, all the activities that filled our days. We were shut inside. And that was already a mercy—it could have been the hospital, medical facilities. I cannot forget all those who found death there, suffering, despair, loneliness.
But back to my family: Giorgio and Cristina, like everyone else, had to stay home from the CEOD for three or four months—I don't quite remember how long anymore. And we were here together. Even though I have lived alone with them for eight years now, the rhythm, the tasks, caring for them and the house—it is all routine. But the exhaustion and heaviness finally caught up with me, made worse by the social and community isolation that emptied me day after day. At some point I broke. And I had to turn to a private facility in the city—a residential home for people with disabilities. So with suffering and difficulty, I placed my siblings there. Cristina stayed a month. Giorgio stayed two, because of complications that came later. That period of forced separation, of loss, of being unable to visit them—it was a calvary. Technically we could visit, but separated by two meters and a pane of glass. A dehumanizing situation for people whose only language is physical touch. I refused it. It was violence to me, violence to them—a violation of human dignity.
We walked that calvary road all the way to the top. The day I went to bring Giorgio home was the day of passion. He was worn down, gaunt, pale, lifeless, without a smile. I thought of death. The sight of him is beyond words. But the next day a new life began. I had to do everything. I had to do whatever was possible. I HAD TO. Held up and encouraged by someone very dear and patient who gave me great trust, and with the force of will that came from above, the Lord gave me the grace to set out again with Giorgio and Cristina. And now, looking at them—especially him—I think we lived a miracle.
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We had climbed the calvary. Now only new light awaited us. Resurrection. A new life. Giorgio and Cristina are the greatest gift I could receive—precious pearls left to me by my parents, by God's grace. More and more, I am convinced that everything was meant to be, and He chose to place two supports at my side. It is not I who care for Giorgio and Cristina. Through them, the Lord cares for me. And the Lord, precisely through that forced separation, has led me and prepared me to receive them from His own hands and live with them a new life. It is wonderful! Yes, after passion comes resurrection. We are witnesses to it.
And I close with words from a song I listen to often these days, words that speak what I have lived.
This is the place that God chose for you,
this is the time He made for you.
What you see is the road that He will trace,
what you feel is the love that will never end.
And we will go, we will announce that in Him all things are possible,
and we will go, we will announce that nothing can defeat us
because we have heard His words,
because we have seen lives change,
because we have seen love win.