At camp, I learned to believe that with our friends who face greater challenges, we can often do far more than we ever expected.
Take Maria Rosaria. Despite her exhaustion, she wanted to sleep in the tent with us. The way she said it—with a smile and such determination—seemed to say: "You're badly mistaken if you think I'm staying behind!" Her suffering turned to joy. The happiness of being with us, of trying something new that had been denied to her all her life—it was so great that fatigue, sleepiness, the discomfort of a tent, the cold, none of it could stop her. She showed us she had a will of her own, and that will deserved our respect.
Carla brought laughter. Her jokes made us laugh until tears ran down our faces, and whenever we gave her a task or asked her to help with a skit for the evening gathering, she threw herself into it completely.
Giorgio surprised us in how he was with those who struggled more than he did, in his own hunger for independence. I was struck by his sensitivity—the way he knew how to be with each person differently, as each moment called for. At San Francesco, Giorgio helped Sabina put on her shoes and fed her. Many mornings I'd take Sabina to the garden, and while I went to get dressed, I'd leave her with Giorgio. He'd take her for walks, or sit down and hold her, always making sure she'd eaten. He spent time with Maurizio too, taking him for walks, pushing his wheelchair. He watched over Noris carefully—if she cried or had a difficult moment, he'd run to see how she was doing.
He helped with chores, going to buy butter or milk or whatever we needed—all on his own. And he was so proud of that.
Tell me, Michel, do you recognize the same Giorgio who went with you to Alfedena that first time?
Lucia Pennisi, 1979
