I hurry to my computer hoping for messages from people I met in Chianciano, and instead find an email asking whether I'd write about the gathering for Ombre e Luci. I say yes immediately—as long as I can write in Italian. Let me explain why.
The moment we arrived in Chianciano, it became clear there was something extra, something rich about this encounter: "Hallo, welcome!" "Ciao," "Привет," "Kellemes," "hej," "hallóziik," "halo"—and then the theme itself, which transcended all of them: "Rewrite the Charter in Your Heart," or as it was said in another language, "Upisp ponovo u svojje in tvoj srce."
I knew the gathering would be international, but I discovered again what I always forget: the gap between a word and what it actually feels like to live it. And I haven't told you yet about the extraordinary privilege that fell into my lap that first evening. Because I didn't simply attend this gathering. I was *passed through* by every word we spoke—I was the "official" translator.
To me, this linguistic Babel is fascinating. I see language not as an obstacle but as a spur to find a different way of communicating, or to find someone who can bridge the gap. It's not so different from what we do in our own communities.
Here were people—many of them responsible for communities—from nearly every country in our Zone: Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Voivodina, Hungary. (Our Romanian friends were held at the border by some absurd visa requirement, but they were with us in a way that borders cannot stop.) And there were a few guests from outside our Zone—not "illustrious," God knows they would have winced at such a label—but certainly special. Father Larsen, our international spiritual assistant, a man large in years but light and young in spirit, the wildest dancer among us. Roy, our vice-coordinator, a Lebanese "westerner" with a serene smile and a decisive character. Lucia Casella, our zone coordinator. And Olga, warm and profound, responsible for our sister zone in the Carpathian Urals.
It's impossible to dwell on faces in a written account. Any living experience becomes only a pale ghost of itself in the telling. When we discussed how best to present Faith and Light to those who don't know it, we all agreed on one thing: that all the many words before "come and see" are only an introduction.
Still, let me try to describe what happened, since I haven't yet told you that this was a formation gathering.
From the outside, the word formation might suggest teachers telling you the way. For me, formation meant receiving questions that helped me seek my own path, guided by people walking several steps—or many steps—ahead of me, sometimes in what seemed like the wrong direction before they redirected us toward the goal. But the word gathering matters equally, because the life of Faith and Light is built on relationship: between people, with God. And that's harder to rediscover alone.
One of the main tools used by those lighting our way was sharing: what we had heard, our reflections, our attempts to answer many difficult questions. Each morning, Don Marco Bove, our national spiritual assistant, would read and comment on a passage of Scripture, then close with questions to deepen our reflection. (Those questions challenged us deeply—so much so that he earned the title "criminal.") In the afternoon, the same topic would be approached less personally, focusing on practical implications for our communities.
We walked together through stages of a journey that reminded us we are called to carry God's vision, even when we're convinced He chose the wrong person—forgetting that He promises "I will be with you." But seeking God's will means change, and change takes effort and commitment. We must set out again on the road.
During the gathering, we traced the steps that should always help us discern and choose: we listened, we shared, we prayed together to draw near, and then we moved toward decision—different for each of us, because we're not always ready to answer even when the direction is clear, often simply because we haven't yet chosen to trust.
We were accompanied through this—sometimes in silence, sometimes down what seemed like the wrong path—by people who first earned our trust so they could help us, even through correction. We reflected on moments when, experiencing our weakness, we realize we cannot do it alone. Once we feel that hunger and thirst again, we decide to return to the source, accepting our weakness and taking nourishment with our own hands. We each received a gift. And before we left, we had to remember that this gift is not only personal—in our hands it becomes a responsibility. We can feel joy and gratitude for it, but responsibility it remains. It is a gift to watch over in our role as stewards, not masters. And so we dispersed, carrying with us this weight of thoughts, these unresolved questions, these new friends, these images—back to our own lives, our own communities.
Valentina Camomilla