On "The Mother and the Theologian"
I'm writing to share my experience regarding the article in the last issue: "The Mother and the Theologian."
I worked as a rehabilitation therapist, almost my entire career, with children with cerebral palsy. I was fortunate to have chosen this work as a girl, and I was able to do it for 26 years until health reasons forced me to retire. But I've remained active in volunteer work, and now I work with a small parents' association thinking about the "after"—what comes next for these children.
The question of pain and suffering, and how to understand it in the light of Christ, has always weighed on me. I received almost no help from priests or those in their role. It's true that everyone points to the Cross and then stops there. I've always rejected that in my heart. I found tremendous help in the books of Jean Vanier, whose ideas are very close to my own. Unable to find an explanation, I always surrendered in the sense that only God knows his plans, and they are certainly not ours. What comfort it was to read that a theologian would say: "Be silent if you don't know how to work miracles." I found confirmation in everything I had done over all these years. I watched Jesus—I still watch him. What does he do? I look at his teachings in the Gospel. First: he loved them, and I must walk that path. Love them, and the rest follows naturally. Words have never served much. Then what does Jesus do? He sees the needs of the people he meets and he feeds them. I too sought to feed their hunger for life. When a new family came to the clinic, I tried to see them as a whole, not just the child who was affected, separated from them. I tried to help them understand that they were the most important people to me in that moment. Professional training was important to me, and staying current was essential, because I needed to give "the best" of my abilities. (Not everything always went smoothly, certainly, but that was my fundamental desire. I made many mistakes too; I'm not infallible. I'm one person with my own faults.)
Imagine all the questions that came constantly: "Why did this happen to me? Why, God?"
I always answered that I didn't know, and I urged them not to ask themselves that question, because it would pull them away and keep them from loving their son. I always assured them and promised my help, promising I would never abandon them. (And with those families I still help today as they think about the "after".)
So I would become angry—and I still do—when people approached with pity. When these children, now grown, told me their anger because people would say in front of them "poor things," I taught them to answer: "Why poor things? Why unfortunate? I'm happy. Maybe you're the one who's poor because you can't see me as a young man, but you only see my wheelchair, my uncontrolled movements..." Then I explained to them that they had to do this, even if it bothered them, because they had
the task of educating these people and preparing the way for those who didn't have the chance to answer, so that others could come to know them... One last thing: a very personal experience of my own, when I wasn't well and needed others. I got angry at the parable of the Good Samaritan, and then I reworked it all. The parable of the Good Samaritan is only the beginning of Jesus's teaching—it's the bare minimum, the first step.
People come to help you, to visit you, to reach into their wallet and then they go off to take care of their business and that's the end of it. The real difficulty comes next. It's learning to forget our own affairs, to try to forget ourselves a little, so that we can share in their daily struggles and walk alongside them at their pace with patience and enduring love—sometimes even forgetting to watch the clock, because our friends' rhythms don't match ours, their needs and desires aren't ours, just as God's will is not ours.
Ernesta Sirtori
I Don't Understand Why...
...I'm aware of everything that happens in the world. The biggest problem is unemployment, because so many people are without work, and I feel like it can't go on this way... I understand normal people and I envy them. With people who have problems I feel bad because I have to be patient, and especially understand what they want: to be helped to do everything... I feel like I'm contradicting myself... When I'm alone, sometimes I feel fine, when I listen to music, or write, or do crosswords. Other times I'm sad and I'd have such a desire to disappear... I want to be accepted for what I am and for what I show despite all my problems... I want to say everything I feel, but I'm afraid of making a mistake, of being sent away, misunderstood. But what's gotten to me most of all is love, because I feel I have love to give, but I don't know who to give it to or how, and no one teaches me anything! But why is it that every time I like a girl she always turns out to be in a relationship, and I'm left alone and I don't even know where to find another? Is it my fault that I think about nothing else, or should I wait? I've never understood why...
Giovanni Grossi
Dear Giovanni, the things you say, the feelings you express in your long letter—you should know—are shared by so many young people your age and by older people too: the distress over the problems around us, the desire to work for others and at the same time the fear of being too involved or of not being accepted for who you are... the deep longing for love, and the fear of not finding the right girl... Many of our readers will see themselves in your words, and who knows, maybe some of them will want to write back to you, to tell you their own struggles... For now, believe me, you've given voice to many young people who can't express their pain the way you do. Thank you for writing to us.