Three years ago, Immacolata, a courageous mother, wrote for the first time to Mariangela. She told her about Francesca, her ten-year-old daughter, severely disabled. She wrote of the great love with which Francesca's father and mother surrounded her, of the younger brother, of the tremendous difficulties they faced, the exhaustion, the discouragement, the constant pain—so often kept private—that came with having a daughter so different from other children.
Immacolata kept writing to Mariangela, and to our magazine too. Each letter brought news of some new milestone Francesca had reached. Her first Communion alongside the other children her age in the parish, dressed in a white gown, following the same ritual—this took enormous effort from Immacolata, and brought incomprehension and conflict. But in the end, Francesca, dressed in a beautiful white dress and blessed by the bishop, received the Eucharist surrounded by the other girls. Then came the fight for a wheelchair—prescribed by her doctor, larger and more comfortable, to give Francesca greater mobility. It was expensive, but for her daughter's sake, Immacolata fought that battle too, and won it.
Then came a dream: an audience with Pope John Paul II for Francesca and the whole family. On a windy October day, with a journey that began at night and ended in the night of the next day, with relatives accompanying them—this dream too became real.
But Immacolata does not stop there. She feels there is more she must do for Francesca. She looks around her town and discovers other disabled children, other parents struggling and suffering for them. They need to know each other, to talk, to be together. She organizes a beautiful birthday party with many friends for another disabled boy living nearby, a boy at risk of being left isolated.
We heard the latest news just days ago. Immacolata is grieving—her elderly mother has died. But she is also joyful because Francesca is now enrolled in fourth grade at the public school, and a classmate named Luciana, who knows her well, helps her adjust. Better still, Luciana has brought the entire class along with her, teaching them all to love Francesca.
This year, ten new girls made their first Communion, as Francesca did two years ago. The mothers and girls went together one Saturday evening to eat pizza, and they wanted Francesca and her mother there with them, as guests of honor. The mothers exchanged party favors, and Francesca received ten favors—all of them.
We are under no illusions. Immacolata knows, as we do, that hardship, pain, fear, and bitterness will come again—more or less often, more or less severe. But a circle of loneliness and bitterness has been broken forever. Francesca and her family will not be alone. New ideas, new gestures of love will be born in them and in everyone who draws near to them. This is what little Luciana teaches us, and all the children in her fourth-grade class, who wrote to us about themselves and about Francesca.
- Pennablù, 2000
We love her so much
Our fifth-grade class received First Communion last year. In our class there is a girl named Francesca Casullo who is sick. The Saturday after our Communion, we all went out for pizza together, we played, we put on music so Francesca could listen. That evening we tried to stay close to Francesca so she wouldn't feel alone. We love Francesca so much and we are always beside her.
Love and kisses from the fifth grade.
Luciana Boccardo, Angela D'Angelo, Antonio Di Vito, Maria Boccardo, Eutony Cianciosi, Fabio Spidalieri, Cristian Lazzino, Mariangela Catalano, Stefania Ladamola.