From Cuneo
Dear Mario and Betty,
I'm late in answering your letter, but I want to say right away how much joy it brought me.
You thank me for what I've given and what I've done; but everything I gave or did is nothing compared to what the Lord has given me through you and through the whole group.
Much has changed in me since the camp: first of all, I see the group differently now. It's no longer "the group"—it's the friends I meet with on Saturdays. Now Paola, Stefano, Maria-Rosa, Patrizio are not children I had to watch over. They're friends I can joke with, play with, talk seriously with.
That means a lot to me, because I've always had few friends in my life.
When I first came to Faith and Light, I was very starry-eyed: I saw everything through rose-colored glasses. But at camp I realized that each of us has our own flaws and gifts, and the movement itself has its difficulties. For that reason I finally appreciate what the group really is. For the first time since last November, I feel like a true part of it.
When I came home from camp, I wanted to cry. I told the Lord it wasn't fair, that I didn't want to go back to my ordinary life. But little by little I understood what he was saying to me: I needed to carry the message of Faith and Light into my everyday life.
So that's where my serious talk ends. I'll finish with a big hello to your wonderfully crazy family.
Ciao.
Pierpaola (Cuneo)
Hi Pierpaola,
A few days have passed since our second group camp experience, and I want to share what these days of community life meant to me.
First, I should describe the place and how we found it. For those who don't know yet: the Cuneo group has a little house all our own. Since May, we've had access to spaces that belong to us—and by "us" I mean Faith and Light, not just the Cuneo group.
The house has twelve bedrooms, most of them seven meters by six, arranged four on the ground floor, four on the first, and four on the second, plus several bathrooms. It's a former girls' boarding school owned by the parish of Demonte, a village twenty-four kilometers from Cuneo. For those of us who used it at camp, it was simply wonderful.
How did we find it? The answer, I think, has to be this: Providence sent it to us. Like other things that have come our way, I can't chalk it up to coincidence anymore—there have been too many. Rather, it's the fruit of the group's growing maturity, learning little by little to trust God and let him work among us. "Seek first the kingdom of my Father, and all these things will be given to you besides." Now, beyond paying rent, we need to make it as welcoming as possible. Many people have already worked to make it livable, but much remains to be done.
Now to the camp itself. From August 5 to 19, four families, several young friends, and some teenagers—about twenty-four to twenty-seven people, swelling to forty-five or forty-eight on weekends—lived together, all of us pitching in with the necessary work. We arranged shifts: every day three people cooked and three others washed dishes. The kids thought it was hilarious watching their fathers bustling about in aprons. That way everyone got a chance to work and rest.
With help from many young people, we organized numerous activities and stayed in close contact with the locals—Sunday Mass, neighborhood festivals, a visit to the cooperative dairy farm, repeated trips to the public gardens and sports field. In fact, on the one day we didn't sing while walking through the village, someone asked if one of us was sick.
Two afternoons we spent fishing for trout for the next day's lunch. Even the youngest, little Daniele at three years old, caught his own trout and practically glowed with joy.
One time we left at dawn to reach Europe's highest shrine at St. Anna of Vinadio, where we prayed for all our friends around the world. Another wonderful outing took us to the Madonna del Pino—a tiny white chapel perched on a hilltop. When we weren't out walking, we worked, drew, played in the courtyard or game room.
The whole camp had a joyful spirit. Whenever a difficulty came up, we cleared it right away, which helped make our life together a success. When it came time to leave, someone suggested extending the stay, but unfortunately that wasn't possible. Still, the energy we carried from those days has already launched us into a string of activities.
We already have a chestnut roast planned and many other things besides. We'll keep you posted. Anyone who wants to visit the house—know that the door is always open.
Ciao to all.
Mario
From Milan
When you're about to spend fifteen days in community with thirty to forty people, knowing you'll share most of your waking hours, it's a bit frightening. Leaving the isolation of Milan and suddenly finding yourself surrounded by so many people—part of you says, "Finally," while another part means changing your home habits, adjusting to constant company, eating unfamiliar food, sleeping in a different bed, and especially minding both your own needs and everyone else's.
Certainly everyone came to camp with different hopes, and afterward found themselves more or less satisfied with what they got.
Some came from deep isolation, and for them camp meant a great deal—real human contact. Others came from lives packed with activities and commitments. Some were experiencing the group for the first time. Others, veterans, arrived without much sense of what would be new.
But surely none of us left without knowing we'd be testing ourselves. Constant contact with others inevitably pushes you forward. It makes you understand how you and others are made. It measures how much you're willing to give. For me, it became crystal clear how these young people create an atmosphere of peace and draw together the most different sorts of people—different ages, different ideas, different intentions. People who otherwise probably wouldn't be together at all.
I found that the fact we're different is first respected, and then it allows a certain freedom of movement so you can breathe fresh air, not organization-heavy air. We have to remember this is still a group of ordinary mortals, where all the normal everyday things happen, where people make mistakes, get angry, get fed up. But the original idea and the intentions—those are what matter.
Every group has its own character and learns to live by practice. We all agreed that running camp like a family—doing household work and cooking together—is our best way of living. It works for several reasons: working together to clean and cook, we know each other better. Each person, and no one else, is responsible for their own task. Besides, for some young people, housework is genuine physical therapy.
All told, luck helped us out: the house was beautiful and spacious, plenty of green space, and the lake right below the fence. The weather was good. Our neighbors from A.N.F.A.S.S. were kind and friendly. What more could you ask?
One more round of applause for the cooks who kept us so delighted!
Marina
From Rome
At Alfedena I was amazed and thrilled to discover and explore the wonders of goodness and self-giving that our young people and our young friends possess. I lived through things I didn't expect and learned that people from whom we expect nothing give, and have, and give, and go on giving.
Rita Cortese
I don't know why, but when I think of Alfedena, the first image that comes to mind is Eucharist—all of us gathered in a circle in the garden, and Vito distributing to each of us the Body of Christ. Every time I was amazed. God loves us all the same way. It's extraordinary!
Jeanne Debergé
This is my first time at a Faith and Light camp. Camping itself is nothing new to me—I'm a career military man and run several camps a year—but this new, beautiful experience struck me deeply. Being together like this, the way we played, worked, prayed, sang, and lived beside all these sincere, warm friends, so full of tender joy, sympathy, and brotherly love, made me truly feel God's presence.
Nicola C.
My name is Massimiliano. I'm Pablo's cousin—he's a handicapped boy—and thanks to him I got to know all of you in Faith and Light. This was my first year at camp. The first few days I felt a bit uncomfortable because I was new and didn't know anyone, but gradually I started making friends, and this big group became like a family to me.
The most beautiful parts of each day were the Masses, which we young people organized and that a friendly priest celebrated. The evening gatherings were fun—games, songs, little skits, and other entertainment. But the best thing about this camp was truly being together with these handicapped young people and living alongside them day after day.
I have to say it was a very positive experience for me. I hope to relive it more consciously and with ever greater enthusiasm in the year ahead.
Massimiliano Batani (15 years)
It's always pretty hard to write about something you've just lived through, but once I got back to Rome I realized I wanted to share my experience with others. This camp was very different from the ones before. We took long walks, didn't play much, and spent time chatting with each other. I think that's really useful for understanding each other better and knowing what we think.
It wasn't easy for me to go to camp. I felt I didn't know the young people and barely knew the other friends. But the moment I arrived, it was enough to look at everyone's faces and say hello to feel I was truly part of the group. It was strange to "feel part of the group" right away—to see that the problems, the sadness, the anger, the smiles weren't just mine but belonged to Paolo and Gianni and Robert and the others too. Everyone took part, each in their own way, in everything that happened.
That's why an incredible downpour turned into an adventure we talked about together, telling our own reactions and laughing about it, making it a shared experience that was undoubtedly positive. The rain was just one moment. There were many others. I want to sum it all up in one big hope of mine: the chance to live with others and create something peaceful for everyone. That's what the Carpineto camp was.
M. Teresa Donati
The first thing that comes to mind is that maybe because there were fewer of us, we reached a closeness and bond this year that I didn't achieve last year at Alfedena with the bigger group. Another really important thing: camp schedules weren't rigid, which let us adapt activities to what the moment needed. It made us feel much freer and more at ease—at least it did for me. I remember talking with M. Teresa toward the end, and we noticed that here at Carpineto, a lot of the usual clichés—like "we care for each other and are always happy," even when we're not at all—just didn't exist. Ciao.
Claudio Carta
Tonight I looked at my hands because they were so tired. Tired from holding all the clusters of love you gave me—all of you, my handicapped friends, at the camps at Alfedena and Carpineto Romano. Tonight I wish I could have sat down among you, taken each of your hands one by one, and continued that soul-to-soul conversation the way we did at camp.
And you, Vincenzo, or Sabina, or Noris, or Angelo—you would surely have spoken to my astonished soul the way you did then, and I would have listened to your voice. Vincenzo, do you remember when I tried to feed you? Every time I brought the spoon near your mouth, your face lit up in an enormous smile. Your eyes looked at me with a little twinkle, and there I stood like a fool with the spoon hanging in the air. You got more and more delighted, and you seemed to be saying to me, "See what you did? I bet you can't even get the next spoonful in!" You always knew how to make me laugh. And when you loved those joyful hymns from Mass—the ones I sang in words while you played with your whole soul, bouncing in your wheelchair (where would you have gone without the brake!) and seeming to invite everyone to sing with more joy.
And you, Noris, sweet little "queen" of Alfedena, with those wonderful fawn-like eyes that could be loving or serious, so bright when you laughed. Your eyes told me so many things. They seemed to want to give me safety. You, Angelo—the suffering little Christ—with your sweet gaze seeming to reassure us about your health, with an incredible calm and peace, as if you knew and accepted that "there will always be someone who pays for us all." While we felt our souls torn watching you in bed, even if only briefly. You, the smallest and the weakest.
Two different camps. One with young people who seemed so fragile but played with my soul using the weapon of a smile—and they're stronger than me, more generous, truer friends—in a constant presence of God that isn't seeking but listening. And in the third camp, at Carpineto Romano, I found you, grown young people, thirsting for love, full of infinite tenderness, desiring only to love with all your strength.
You, Giorgio, eternal singer full of joy, shouting my name all day long from one end of the stairs to the other, as if it were a new song. You, Emanuele, with your thirst for love—a deeper thirst because you're older, more aware, and lonelier because of it. And you, Paolo, "Bear" Paolo, clinging silently to the tape recorder and then talking on and on when you're afraid of a storm. A strangely affectionate bear, a strangely true friend, who reveals a deeply sensitive soul inside a shell of indifference.
It's not easy to speak of two camps, their differences, their strengths, their possible flaws, and especially so many things about our handicapped brothers, our dear friends, the whole atmosphere of the community. They are two utterly different worlds. It's hard to speak of them precisely because it isn't a chronicle—it's life lived soul to soul, friend to friend, moment by moment, in one long conversation made of smiles, of nuance, of glances, of prayers spoken by lips and by heart.
Anna De Gregorio