In your December issue, you gave voice to mothers. Reading each story, I found myself thinking of my own mother: a remarkable woman, a truly special kind of mother—as so many mothers of children and young adults with disabilities are.
My mother, Maria, was called to paradise last year. It was a peaceful, joyful time, despite her many health struggles; she had found her balance and stability. After an evening spent in good spirits with friends at Raggi di sole (a Fede e Luce community), her smile suddenly turned to pain, and then, after six days, it faded away.
For fifty-five years, my mother and father—though he played a smaller role at first—welcomed, loved, and cared for three children besides me, all living with encephalitis and spastic tetraparesis, each with 100% disability. They poured their lives into us.
Our mother fought countless battles, most of them alone, without resources, with barely a penny in her pocket. Her only wealth was a deep faith, a fierce hope, and a love only she knew how to give. She was judged, mocked, condemned, humiliated—yet I never saw her angry. She was always smiling, always certain of herself. In our home lived an aunt who seized every chance to demean her, saying directly and indirectly that she couldn't live because of those children, that there were institutions for them. But she would say: "They were born here. They stay here."
She told of the time when the parish priest in the 1960s decided to help our family. He and the mayor applied to have one of my three siblings admitted to the Cottolengo Institute. The application was approved. But after visiting the place, my parents said no. The children would stay with us. The priest and mayor disagreed. They thought they were offering real help—the only help available—but they never put themselves in my parents' shoes. My mother would bring prescriptions from the psychiatrist to town hall to be signed so we could get medicine (we lived in poverty), and weeks would pass, even when it was urgent. Once she grew angry at the administrator and called him out because we needed those medicines. He answered: "What fault is it of mine that you have those children? Let them starve to death—what does it matter?"
These are only two moments from my mother's life, but her greatness lay in her capacity to love life despite everything, without limits. A truly great mother—always welcoming, joyful, smiling, with a contented heart, generous and kind to everyone, not least to her own family.
I share some passages from the homily at her funeral Mass, with readings from the Hymn to Charity and the Beatitudes: "We gather here to celebrate Maria's faith and hope, but it is her charity, her great heart, that brings us together today. We recognize the good she did and wanted to do, and this makes us feel her presence as great, worthy of honor and affection. Dear Maria, you never wanted this moment to come. You feared it and kept it from your mind with all your strength: how would they manage, especially Giorgio and Cristina (her eldest son Enzo died at fifteen), without you? You loved these children from the moment you carried them within you: you loved and welcomed them even when you saw they would bring you suffering, sacrifice, work, and struggle. You loved each one—Enzo, Giorgio, Luciana, Cristina—and the weakest and most defenseless among them became part of your very life. You felt judged, attacked, criticized even within your own walls. Who knows how many times you lost faith and hope. Who knows how many times the world seemed to crash down on you and your children. Who knows how many tears you shed. Yet despite it all, you would recover with your carefree, joyful, open, life-affirming way. You would return to your smile. It was the life of your children that gave you life, energy, enthusiasm, the will to live and to smile. And it was your faith in God. Now, Maria, we believe you stand face to face with God, forever. You will know him as he has always known you. And I think of your wonder as you discover, imprinted on his face—on the face of God who is Love—the faces of your children and all the gestures of your love. Because Maria, and now you know it in fullness, charity never ends!"