Hard Years, But a Seed Has Grown
I write to share the beautiful joy in my heart—a gift from God—a joy I call HOPE. It has grown in me over recent years, living alongside Alessandro, my wonderful son who carries what they call autism, a severe mental illness.
...Throughout my life, love—true love—has burned quite strongly in me. I always saw my home as a crossroads for people, and it was. But when Alessandro came into the world, my wife and I found ourselves alone. Really alone. Now only the occasional stranger passing through sits at our table. These have certainly been hard years, yet I have not regretted them, because they have given me a deeper faith and strengthened in me the sense of love, of giving, of welcome.
I am convinced that in every family that has lived through what my wife, my daughter, and I have lived through, a seed is now sprouting—more or less consciously—a beautiful seed called HOPE.
Giovanni Battista de Cola
It would take several pages to publish his long letter in full, so rich with faith, suffering, questioning, and compassion for those around him. We print here the part we believe most essential—his reflections on HOPE. He carries it within him so vividly, and this, we are certain, opens his heart to action. We believe indeed that only action alongside others and for others—however small and unnoticed, yet constant and full of energy—is the answer available to us in the face of the suffering around us. We walk with him on this journey, and we are close to Alessandro, his wife, and his daughter.
Come to My House
Reflecting on friendship in general—and at Fede e Luce in particular—I remembered a song from years ago. It told the Gospel story of Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–10), and it went: "Come down, Zacchaeus, you're no little sparrow, thinking you can see everything from way up there. Today I want to stay with you. Come to my house, come down."
Zacchaeus had heard about the great Master traveling through cities and villages, preaching. He did not know him and wanted to learn more. Being short and seeing that Jesus was surrounded by many people, he climbed a tree to get a better look. Jesus noticed him and opened his heart to him. He said: "Hurry down, for I must stay at your house today!" This very concrete episode symbolizes for me an opening of the heart toward our disabled friends, and it reminds me of all the encounters that happen in a home—ours or theirs—and the simple, freely given friendship that accompanies them. It is the moment our disabled friends are always waiting for—we know this well—a moment that may someday be forgotten, that sometimes might be difficult, but that represents an important thread between us and them. I don't think it's essential to ask how often it should happen; it simply needs to happen. And it speaks the language of affection: "I want to come to you, I want to know you, I want to know the people you love, the place where you live, I want to talk with you, you are my friend, come to my house."
Maria Ricci
Silence Is the Only Answer
I read with pleasure in your beautiful, interesting, and helpful magazine (No. 65) the article by Manuela Bartesaghi, "The Mother and the Theologian." As I read, I recalled a conversation between two mothers of disabled young people that I witnessed a few weeks ago. My older sister was there—she is the mother of Gianfranco, a disabled young man of 28—along with another mother of a young woman, also an adult with physical and mental disabilities. Both were staying at a village in the hills outside Bologna for a few days of vacation, seeking some peace away from their usual family environment, together with other families living in similar circumstances.
"The Lord cannot want this," one of them said, gesturing toward her daughter in the wheelchair, while the other mother struggled to find convincing words, some plausible explanation for it all. In that moment I felt completely unable to say anything that might help this woman. After reading your article, I understood that my silence was the right choice.
Reading the words of theologian Pierangelo Sequeri brought me great comfort, because all of us—not only parents, but also brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, and uncles deeply bound to these young people—feel crushed by a heavy cross that we must have earned somehow, for some mysterious reason.
I urge you to continue addressing this subject, because I believe it offers great comfort to so many people caught in the raw reality of suffering and pain. With affection,
Lucia Guglietta