Faith and Light Communities Meet Across Italy
Lucia Bertolini named new national leader; Fr. Giuseppe Serighelli appointed new national chaplain
From December 7 to 10, 1989, Italy's Faith and Light communities gathered for their national assembly. During the meeting, a new national leader was elected: Lucia Bertolini, a wife and mother of five who has long been active in the movement. We extend our warmest wishes to her and to the new national chaplain, Fr. Giuseppe Serighelli.
The assembly was honored by a visit from the international vice coordinator, Marcin Przeciszewski, from Poland. Below is an excerpt from his account of his time in Italy, where he reflects on the impression Faith and Light made upon him:
"I came away with the sense that FL in Italy represents one of the finest models in the world. The communities are alive with young people; at the same time, many parents have found their place here. Most of the people I met struck me as deeply committed to FL—many of them wrestling with how to live out their Faith and Light vocation in daily life, both private and professional.
What impressed me most was the quality of the leadership, animated by the true spirit of Faith and Light. Italians have a rich imagination, but every detail is adapted for people with disabilities.
One evening, during a prayer vigil, a mime was meant to introduce the prayers. For me, it was outstanding: a young man searching for his place in a world that seems absurd, gradually discovering the truth of love. Everything was simple and accessible to people with disabilities, yet at the same time marked by genuine artistry. Italians have particular gifts—an ease in making contact, great openness, a strong sense of humor, and above all, a natural joy. This joy shines through in their communities."
That Bread, So Fine
From the "Walking Together" group in Marzocca
A community's journey is built on many small daily steps—sometimes so small we hardly notice the ground we're covering until we arrive at something far greater than ourselves, something that leaves us only able to wonder and give thanks to God.
Our "Walking Together" group experienced one of these sacred moments on September 24th. On that Sunday, Paolo and Gianfranco, two adult brothers from our community, stood among the young people of Marzocca parish, radiant with joy as they received the sacrament of Confirmation. That same day, Lucia, a little girl we all love dearly, received her First Communion. Fr. Danilo had asked me to walk with her in the days leading up to the ceremony and to be at her side during the celebration itself.
Through Lucia, I discovered anew the profound beauty of the sacraments, perhaps in their most intimate truth: the beauty of "asking Jesus to forgive us" for who we are, of waiting with trembling joy for that "bread, so fine, that is Jesus."
Some people still believe that certain individuals cannot receive the sacraments because they lack the capacity to "understand" them. I wonder whether there is more to understand than what Lucia understood, or whether the question is not understanding but rather *living* the sacraments.
Lucia lived with her whole self the joy of forgiveness and Communion. And Paolo and Gianfranco still speak often of their Confirmation. How can they not be witnesses of Christ in the world, they to whom such great things have been revealed?
Stefania
How Little Suffices
Chiara Frassineti, leader of the St. Sylvia Community in Rome, spent three months at an Ark house in Honduras. She shares her experience with us.
Honduras lies in Central America, between Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala.
The Ark's work began here thirteen years ago.
Today there are three foyers in Honduras: two on the outskirts of the capital, Tegucigalpa, and one in the south, in Cheluteca. I lived at the St. José house there from August through November of last year.
The community is still young and not yet as developed as the houses in the capital. Four years ago, the bishop of Cheluteca brought attention to the difficult situation of Sulema, a deeply troubled young woman then thirteen years old. After her mother died—the only person who cared for her—Sulema ended up living on the streets, mocked and abused by neighbors, both for her awkward appearance and for the aggressive ways she related to others, ways that often frightened people. Eventually she was admitted to a psychiatric hospital in the capital.
A young woman named Pilar answered the bishop's call. A house was found in a neighborhood near where Sulema had lived—a simple house like all the others, with walls of mud and branches, a tiled roof.
Pilar was joined for two years by Melba, a young Honduran woman. Together they welcomed Sulema, Mela, and two brothers, Felipe and Santos. During my stay, the brothers were away, staying in two other communities.
A woman who lived with her family just a few blocks away came every day to share our life. She loved each of us with great tenderness, as if we were her own children, and everyone called her *mamita* Andrea. There was also Chema, a man in his thirties whose parents were quite elderly. He spent much of his day wandering and begging. Very thin, he moved unsteadily with the help of a walking stick, and the neighborhood children liked to knock him off balance. For the past year, Chema came to the community every morning, staying through lunch, making himself useful by cutting wood.
Life at the St. José house was very simple. Early each morning, Pilar, Melba, and I would gather in the small chapel for a time of prayer. Then one of us would wake the girls and help them get ready, another would prepare breakfast, another would tidy the house.
We always had guests at breakfast—as we did at lunch—and we shared with them whatever we had. Lupita often visited, sometimes bringing one of her four children. Lupita's family was the closest to our house and had been supportive and generous from the start. Her daughters played happily with Mela and Sulema. If we needed something in the kitchen, a simple word would bring it. When any of us went to market, it was a chance to return the favor.
Each person had daily work in the house. Mela worked in the kitchen with *mamita* Andrea, helping prepare lunch and the tortillas for dinner. Chema cut the firewood needed for cooking. Sulema carried the wood from outside into the kitchen. The others had work that varied with the seasons: one day the roof needed repair to keep the kitchen from flooding during the rains. Another day we fashioned cushions from an old foam mattress. We whitewashed a wall, or repaired one that the heat and dryness had cracked. There was always washing and mending to do, shopping to be done in the city, and time to spend with people. Here, close to the countryside, people lived mostly outside their homes. Cars were rare on the roads; the streets weren't paved. The houses themselves were usually small and dark—a chair or two, a couple of hammocks, a small table in a corner, a box for storing the family's clothes. That was typically all there was. Some had a bit more, but many had less.
So the women would meet outside, perhaps at the mill, talking about the price of corn shooting up, or the uncertain work of husbands and sons. The south is the poorest region of the country, partly because of the unstable subtropical climate—torrential rains followed by severe drought—and partly because the land is controlled by a few large landowners.
Afternoons were for visiting. Different people would come by to see how we were doing, to help us however they could, to share some moments of the community's life.
Often we were the ones doing the visiting. On Tuesdays, for example, we would go with Sulema to see Clorinda and Luis, who have six children, three of them disabled. I remember the first time—it was my second day in Cheluteca—that I entered their home.
I felt out of place, cumbersome, painfully aware of being a "gringa" (the local term for a foreigner; to them, foreign meant wealthy). A heavy smell hung in the air. In one of the two hammocks, wrapped in meager cloth, lay Sandrita, a small girl of fifteen. Her searching gaze moved slowly as she tried to see the new visitors. Letizia ran through the house from room to kitchen and back outside, giggling, then off again. Naum too ran ceaselessly like his sister, refusing any clothes, desperately searching for a handful of corn paste or Letizia's hair. Alexi and Luisito played with wooden tops. Antonia, the oldest, stood at the washbasin, scrubbing a mountain of clothes with a tiny sliver of soap in water filled with earth and debris knocked loose by Naum. Luis was out working.
Clorinda welcomed us with a warm, cordial smile. I always saw that smile on her face, even when, as I was leaving, she was very ill. She invited us to sit in the free hammock, retrieved a chair from against the wall. Everything in her house was at our disposal. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two plates of hot tortillas and beans. The plates were only for us guests. I felt truly in the way. I had seen that in the kitchen there was only one pot with a few beans in it.
The poor often lack the essentials, yet they are just as ready to share what they have. I had to learn to receive. In those few months I confronted the fundamental human needs, the question of what is essential. How little a woman, a man, a child needs to live and find peace.
How can one then think of waste, consumerism, comfort, the individualism of our prosperous north, which for too long has pursued only domination? How can one not recognize that the world is cruelly and dangerously torn by division? I believe every human being is cherished by God, that every person has the same dignity in His sight. This means we must step out of indifference and let ourselves be questioned deeply by the mystery of the Beatitudes.