Covid-19 forced the cancellation of countless events across the city. Among them: the Carro's thirtieth-anniversary jubilee celebration. This residential community on via Strampelli in Rome, which welcomes people with disabilities, had planned three monthly gatherings on Sunday afternoons—times when the community typically opens its doors to friends for the Eucharist and a shared meal. Then came a major celebration in June. Each session would feature a discussion, led by a visiting moderator, on three themes: the meaning of welcome amid fragility, the grace of shared family life, and what it means to witness faith as part of the Church and the wider world.
Then came the virus, upending everything. The Carro, like every other community, had to close its doors. But not entirely. Matteo Mazzarotto and Ivana Perri—a couple who have lived alongside the residents as part of the community's core family—began sending weekly chronicles of life during lockdown. Through their accounts, many of us discovered something new: the residential home sits in an area called Montemigliore. The countryside there is beautiful. Distance from the city had always been a challenge, they wrote, yet "never as now have we recognized the blessing of living here, where space—both the amount and the quality—lets us move around, breathe fresh air... and keep our distance."
None of the residents stops being part of society because of their disability. The isolation created "another chance for education: teaching everyone to keep distance, follow the rules, understand—even partially—what's happening around us." The community holds a deep conviction: no one ever stops learning, within the limits of their capacity. We learned that early shortages of masks were solved, easing the stress of daily management. Fevers, though not unusual and properly reported to health authorities, caused brief worry that soon passed.
Without outside activities and monthly gatherings, the community invented new routines. Sunday afternoons became cinema time in the multipurpose hall, "complete with abundant popcorn, per regulation!" Video calls with family members brought connection—when the internet cooperated. Stefano's birthday was celebrated as always, with a beautiful cake. Then came Easter, "strange" at first, but later a chance to celebrate hope and resurrection. "Here in our community, we reinvented the Holy Triduum—praying together on Thursday and Friday, then watching Pope Francis's liturgies on television. Everyone was deeply present, aware of how sacred the moment was." On Easter Sunday, "we watched Mass from St. Peter's, and especially the Urbi et Orbi blessing—Stefano loves that. Though he swears the Pope wasn't really there because he didn't see him on the Loggia, as he calls it!"
One friend outside the Carro, thanking Matteo and Ivana for these weekly chronicles with photographs, wrote that they had made him feel "closer." It was extra work for them, without question. For us, it was reason to give thanks for thirty years devoted to creating a place of rare and authentic relationship. A reminder, too, that a community like the Carro needs many friends—not just those who live or work there—to bear fruit in the world we want to build. With fewer people left alone in their fragility. "Life goes on, with its struggles but also, above all, with its gifts—for us here at the Carro, especially the gifts of friendship, connection, celebration. In a word: the gift of community, which means we are never alone." The jubilee reflection, within the limits that circumstances allowed, unfolded exactly as it should have.