«Everyone has turned away!» «We're completely alone—we barely see even our own family anymore!» How many times do parents of a child with a handicap say these things. It's true: suffering divides us from others, pushes us away almost naturally. The deeper the wound, the more we tend to curl inward, to withdraw into ourselves, to shut doors and windows, convinced that solitude is what we need to bear a weight that crushes or overwhelms us.
I know from my own experience that relatives, friends, brothers and sisters seem to flee from that burden of pain, which feels even heavier because of the loneliness and abandonment that comes with it.
Is it a feeling or is it real? Are we pushing them away, or are they the ones who leave?
It's us. We keep our child at a distance because we're afraid, because we think only we can understand him, because we don't want to be a bother, because... because...
It's them who are afraid, who feel uncomfortable, who don't know what to do, who... who... And once this void opens up, why blame the others?
Wouldn't it be better to simply and honestly acknowledge that this emptiness that hurts us so much is the grave and heavy consequence of sorrow—or as I would say, the normal condition of any suffering?
We are always alone when we must «accept» or «receive» an evil that pounds hard at our door. But with a handicapped child, don't we often end up pushing him away from the very people we want close, involved, and supportive?
I believe the process of isolation or inclusion begins with how parents respond to what has happened. It's natural to be stunned, frozen, and alone at first. But this must be overcome with courage and resolve.
Others will only step forward if we take the first steps to keep the door of our home and our heart open. It's not easy, especially at the beginning. But as the articles in this issue tell us, it's equally simple to crack that door open and discover that grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, and friends are right there, waiting for a sign from us to come closer.
Suffering alone serves no one. It's a barren choice. True «nearness,» which we speak of so often, demands that both sides be willing to reach toward each other—to carry together what seems unbearable, and which, precisely because it is shared, can become lighter.
Is this not the most important lesson that the Light of Bethlehem offers us again every year?
by Mariangela Bertolini, 1986