«Lord, make me an instrument of your peace! Lord, make me an instrument of your love!»
An instrument of peace and love—that was the reality I lived during my days in Assisi. An instrument: I need to underline that word, because sometimes I forget I am one. That's when I discover, on one hand, my infinite limitations and my nothingness, and on the other, God's infinite greatness and his all-encompassing presence.
One such moment came during a Mass organized by the South. The preparation itself was fraught with nervousness, tension, inexperience. We arrived at Santa Chiara an hour early, trying to anticipate every possibility. I remember the line of ten priests waiting, patient but anxious, for the signal to begin. I remember the game of telephone—a message that left as one thing and arrived as another. Rosario from Palmi, who was supposed to read the opening prayer (though in the end neither opening nor closing prayer was read), somehow ended up wedged in the middle of the choir. After a moment of bewilderment, he wisely decided to start singing instead.
And then came the offertory—which looked less like a procession and more like a stampede.
That was when my nerves lit up red. But it was also the moment when I bumped against my own limits, the moment when—I only understood this afterward—I should have prayed: «Lord, you take it from here» and simply let go. But someone else must have prayed it instead, because God never abandons his children. His presence entered all our hearts, and there was deep emotion.
So now, like a young man with Down syndrome I saw in Assisi, I stand at attention beneath the Cross and pray: «Lord, make me an instrument—and I underline that word, instrument—of your peace.»
by Luisa Spada, 1986