Social distancing—in its purely material sense of physical space between people—is the perfect opposite of the human bonds we live at Faith and Light, where dialogue thrives not through words alone but through embraces, smiles, and shared walks. Yet paradoxically, in its purpose—mutual protection—social distancing aligns perfectly with the deepest truth of our movement: the steadfastness of relationships between young people, parents, and friends, what I'll call, borrowing Pope Francis's words from his inaugural homily, "watching over one another in trust, respect, and goodness."
At Faith and Light we have learned, tested, and invented countless ways to practice care: COVID-19 has taken many from us—surely the loveliest ones—but it has also given us new ones. They may be less warm because they're technological, but they work. And if we're being honest, over this endless year, our human network has held together because of the digital network.
Through WhatsApp groups, video calls, and Zoom meetings, we have managed to stay close, even from a distance, and to share as we did before the pandemic—perhaps even more so?—all the different colors and temperatures of our days. Joking messages and desperate pleas have circulated through our human and virtual network alike, not least the small, profound miracles of love that happen when we step into someone else's shoes, especially when we've never met them at all. Like the Samaritan in Luke's parable, who passes a stranger half-dead on the road and stops to care for him.
I witnessed one such small, profound miracle of love among strangers—people who may never meet—unfold on my phone in mid-November. A young man with autism from my community was rushed to the hospital with a serious pulmonary embolism linked to a previous orthopedic surgery. We were in the middle of the second wave. All the COVID hospitals enforced strict rules: no outside visitors, not even for patients who needed full care like A, who doesn't speak in words but only through his sounds and a distinctive way of moving. His sister P stood outside the ward door terrified—not only for A's health (doctors' visits were suspended due to COVID, and family could call only twice a week during set hours), but especially afraid that A would feel abandoned in that place.
Yet with anguish in her heart and phone in hand, P didn't give up. She began texting everyone in her contacts, asking if anyone knew someone inside the hospital who could get her news. Like her, we all began calling and messaging frantically. The WhatsApp chain moved at lightning speed. Within moments, thanks to G, a sister-friend from Faith and Light, we found a connection—her brother-in-law is a healthcare worker at that hospital—and he jumped into action to get news of A. Even that seemed like a sign: A wasn't alone, and neither was his sister standing outside that door. Then came another small, profound miracle, a touch of extra care in the chat. G's brother-in-law, after speaking with the nurses and gathering information for P, had the thoughtfulness to go into A's room and take a photo of him. "I thought," he said later, "that his family would feel better seeing him." And he was right.
Thank you, unknown brother-in-law, for letting our net catch you, for stopping just as the Samaritan in Luke's Gospel stopped. Thank you, dear G, for all the times you've cast, mended, and repaired the Faith and Light network—as a sister and friend—and this time, through the digital network too.
(Epilogue. In the days after A's admission, the hospital's psychiatrist contacted P for guidance on how to interact with him, and after testing negative, P was allowed into the ward. A's embolism fortunately resolved, and he's now recovering at home, where, cared for by his sisters, he has begun rehabilitation with good results. Soon he'll be walking and running again.)