Nicolina, Claudio, Vincenza, and Daniele discovered Faith and Light during one of the camps organized in 1980 by friends of the communities at Alfedena. They lived in Pescasseroli; nearby, they ran a restaurant, and it was there that the somewhat special group from Faith and Light met them during a walk. An intense friendship grew between them and this family, bound together by little Daniele, a child who was also a bit special. What follows is Nicolina's recollection of the encounter with John Paul II.
In 1981 we took part in the international pilgrimage to Lourdes, even though until the last moment it seemed Daniele might not be able to come. During the long train journey, important friendships formed, and we built one with the parents of Manuela—Massimo and Brunella.
The pilgrimage ended, and some time later, our new travel companions invited us to Rome with a pretext: they were leaving for America to have their baby, they said, so why not take a walk at Saint Peter's? We were nearby anyway. Brunella wanted the Pope's blessing. Why didn't we come too? I had my doubts. I hadn't had much use for a church that hadn't shown itself to be close or welcoming to my Daniele. In fact, I was angry—angry at all those people who spoke to me in words but showed no real concern for Daniele in their actions.
So with that attitude, we went with our friends to Saint Peter's—a week before the attack on the Pope. Looking back, I had expected to witness the blessing of Brunella's womb, her second child after Manuela, who was born severely disabled. Massimo was wearing a jacket; the rest of us weren't dressed properly. Brunella lent me a shirt, just for the occasion.
We stood in the front row outside on the steps of the basilica. John Paul II came toward us. He stopped first in front of Brunella, blessed the child she was carrying for just a moment, then turned toward us. He saw Daniele in my arms—a beautiful three-year-old boy, but if you looked closely, you could see his grave difficulties. The Pope understood immediately. He stayed for a long time, visibly moved by our youth, and he even made a gesture as if to take Daniele in his arms. But I couldn't bring myself to let him. I was afraid he wouldn't know how to hold him.
The Pope lingered with us. The ceremonial attendants following him urged him to move on, but John Paul II spoke with us for several minutes. He spoke of what grace this fragile child might become, and he spoke with sincerity—we could tell he knew what he was saying from the depths of his heart. His expression seemed weighed down, as though he had been struck in the stomach, but that tenderness has stayed with us all these years.
We all felt the same emotions that day, though we didn't speak of it until twenty-four years later, when, just days ago, we learned that the Holy Father's life was slipping away. We remembered with deep emotion that man who didn't seem like a priest or a pope in those moments—how clear it was that he was speaking from his heart, how he had astonished and moved us, almost shaken us: his were true words of compassion.
Edited by Cristina Tersigni, 2005