I remember the day we met. It was at the Parish of Santa Silvia, where I had returned hesitantly to volunteer work after my younger years. She was sitting in front of the desk of our pastor, Don Benedetto, who introduced us. When I saw her warm, welcoming smile, I have to admit I was skeptical. Too good to be true, I thought. I feared she would be the typical "good" parishioner—a bit patronizing, always at church events. But the meeting went well, and I liked her immediately. That woman with white hair and eyes the color of a mountain sky was nothing like what I'd imagined. She was more like an engine with a hundred horsepower—always launching new activities, new ideas, and above all, Christian culture. The pastor, who held her in great esteem and trust, had given her the task of coordinating all the parish's charitable work, a sector that was flourishing in those days.
I was just beginning to launch a Caritas Listening Center, and after that first meeting, I began walking beside her. I did so for more than twenty-five years, until she let go of my hand.
She taught me so much, and not just about volunteer work. Her experience guided me professionally too. As a social worker, I found in her the right inspiration for bringing together professional skill and Christian life. She showed me, by her example, that you are a Christian always—in every circumstance of life.
I remember her in the Pastoral Council, speaking with piercing, incisive, constructive words.
She disliked people who came to generate guilt or show off their virtue. She taught me that we are all poor. I remember her getting angry at the boys who wore holes in their jeans sitting on the church steps, and how she insisted they be drawn into volunteer activities, even simple ones.
She opposed segregated Masses—separate ones for children, for young people, for adults. "Families should go to Mass together," she would say.
I traveled far alongside her, often by car. Once, on our way to the Carro, we got so caught up in conversation that we found ourselves in Ardea, well past the turnoff to the Casa Famiglia. Those car rides, especially in recent years when we drove together to Ombre e Luci, were precious moments of real exchange. We talked about everything—children, husbands, relatives, cooking. She told me little episodes from her life, fragments I slowly pieced together like a puzzle: moments sad and joyful, her patriarchal family, her mother's strength of spirit, Chicca, the birth of Fede e Luce.
We often spoke about my work, and she entered into the situations I described. Long afterward, even without knowing names, she would ask how people were doing. I came to think of her as my "sage," and sometimes I would ask her to "go up the mountain" with me to talk. She listened without judgment. She knew how to console. And she always gave her opinion in a way that never left a bitter taste.
After we had known each other a while, I found myself thinking that I had met not just a capable, intelligent person, but a truly good one. Perhaps she read my mind, because one day she told me: "Don't think I'm good, because I'm absolutely awful!" I laughed and said I didn't believe it. And I was right not to. Still, I witnessed her "outbursts" on several occasions. The first one that left me truly stunned came during an early Carro Council meeting with her beloved nephew Matteo. She proposed buying a dishwasher to ease the burden of daily life in the young Casa Famiglia. Matteo opposed it strongly, calling it a luxury. What followed was an intense verbal clash between aunt and nephew. I was shocked and a bit worried, but I noticed the others—who knew them better—seemed amused, despite their concern. I later understood that she argued and got angry especially with people she respected and loved. So when she began to get a little angry with me too, I took it as a compliment. She was sincere, never hypocritical, never said things out of false kindness. She could show great tenderness, a spirit of real sharing, that way of welcoming that—even as she criticized—made you feel she was always there with you, capable of disapproving even a disabled young person's behavior when necessary, precisely because she held them in such deep respect.
I saw this contrast between her tenderness and her strength even in those final days.
She was in the hospital, barely eating, speaking very little, yet always sharp and lucid. I had brought her two kinds of biscuits, chosen carefully to avoid anything harmful—one was blueberry. Her son Nanni asked which she preferred, and she pointed with her eyes at one of the bags, but we couldn't tell which. Then, in a clear, strong voice, she said: blueberries. We smiled. I think it was the last word I heard her say—except for a whispered goodbye or two. I love that word. It sounds like her. And I associate blueberries with mountains, where years ago I collected and ate so many. Though we never managed to go there together, she had the scent of mountains about her.
Everyone says she was an exceptional person, but that shouldn't become an excuse for the rest of us, who feel merely ordinary at best. Mariangela certainly had many talents, but she put every one of them to use, even in the face of great difficulties. Her mill received plenty of water, but even as she turned her wheel among the stones, she let it all flow through—so it could turn other mills too.
Rita Massi, 2014