Mariangela was a force. A sheer force of nature, the passion she poured into everything meant she'd argue—sometimes fiercely—with the people she loved most. She never backed down, especially when it came to the poor and the suffering: the families, the mothers and fathers of children like her Chicca, children with special needs. She understood their anguish, their needs, their longings, their fears—and she knew how to speak for them.
After years building Faith and Light, the shared family home became Mariangela's dream. Living in brotherhood, affection, and mutual support in a warm, protected place—that was the only future she could imagine for her disabled friends, and especially for the anguish their families carried. She respected the work of people in institutions dealing with these questions, but she was often impatient with endless talk that led nowhere, with theory that never became practice, with that institutional habit of thinking only in "educational and therapeutic" terms instead of starting from what people actually needed: real relationship. She felt the parents' anguish. She carried it. And she felt responsible for helping to ease it.
When I began planning Il Carro, it was natural to ask her first. She had brought me into Faith and Light years ago, when I was young, as her nephew. We'd spend whole evenings talking about our most vulnerable friends, but also about silly things—that was her wonderful side—and sometimes we'd dream about a future full of shared homes that grew from Faith and Light. When I told her what I had in mind, she didn't need time to think. Her yes was immediate and absolute. For twenty years, for as long as she was able, Mariangela was the tireless, irreplaceable prod of our community. She served on the board, worked with our welcoming team, but mostly she brought her spark, her heart, her warmth, her gift for drawing people in—to every meeting, every reflection, every celebration.
When Ivana and I decided to build our own family within the community, Mariangela wrestled openly with joy and worry. She was thrilled by this "completion"—and relieved when our three daughters were born into this expanded family. But she was always concerned, always making sure they—and our live-in friends—could thrive in this unusual way of life.
What I regret is that our professional team never got to be nourished by her strength and depth. The team came together just as Mariangela's energy began to wane. But she had already done something essential: she walked alongside most of the families who took that hard step of "letting go" of their children, trusting them to the future.
For everyone who lives in our community, Mariangela remains a living presence, her memory tangible. For us, there is a great emptiness—but also the certainty of a light to guide our way. From above, this cart now moves forward with even greater force.
Matteo Mazzarotto, 2014
