Although fewer in number than we had hoped, your responses to our call—both in words and financial support—have quieted our doubts and fears. "Keep going. Don't give up!" Thank you for that encouragement. We needed it. Twenty years ago, when we began this dialogue with you on these pages, we did so because we knew that many parents of disabled children were alone, lost, overwhelmed by difficulty and sorrow. We wanted to build a network of solidarity, at least in words—a space where those who felt isolated and abandoned could find connection.
Slowly and together, we have faced challenges, shared our desires and needs, and sometimes given voice to difficulties that seemed insurmountable. We have often helped one another, searching out information, places, people, centers, doctors, and services that might assist someone in need. Perhaps few have received concrete help, but some certainly have. We have shared the positive experiences of some to encourage and inspire those struggling through dark moments and crises. We have made space for reflection and testimony from people who dedicated their lives to accompanying and educating disabled persons and their parents. I do not know how many of our younger readers have found themselves in the pages of Ombre e Luci. But we have tried to keep them in mind, answering their questions and responding to the advice they sometimes asked of us. Within our limited space, we have welcomed their stories of unexpected discoveries—moments of free time, service, and vacation shared with their disabled peers.
As I sketch this rough accounting, I see again in memory the faces and figures of people who have become dear and close to us. Some we have never met in person, only heard on the telephone. Others we have known more closely—they have visited our austere, slightly damp office, have been heard and held. I remember a young mother arriving with her restless nine-year-old son, asking: "I'm Jewish. I'm divorced. I'm an atheist. Can I still come in?" She had clearly formed a harsh image of us. But we had set ourselves the task of never labeling anyone who came through our door, and of opening our arms and hearts to whoever knocked seeking help.
I do not recall ever experiencing an unwelcome meeting. In every encounter, we found warmth in dialogue, care in listening, a genuine desire to search together for solutions—even when they were difficult and far from obvious. In the most tragic cases, where there were no ready answers or recipes, we have always left feeling that we had shared something good together, grateful simply to have sat with the question of how to "keep going."
Our few resources, our limited expertise, our sparse scientific knowledge—none of these ever stopped us. We moved forward with the commitment not to back away, to smile at our mistakes. Looking back, I think of certain phrases that wise friends would throw at me now and then: "But on what authority do you write to parents of...?" "What do you say to someone who asks you...?" Thinking it over now, I confess we often felt inadequate. But that never stopped us. It made us doubt, made us say, "My heart is sinking," but each time we found new courage, remembering that our small discouragements were nothing compared to the suffering, exhaustion, and loneliness we witnessed in others.
So we continued along the path you readers and friends pointed out to us, armed with goodwill and a bit of humor. Above all, we entrusted our work to the help and protection of that Lord Jesus who drew near to the poorest and most afflicted.
— Mariangela Bertolini, 2002