Well Done, Mom!
It was an overwhelming moment. Andrea, whom I feared might be hurt by what I'd said—even my blunt honesty—actually complimented me. His exact words were: "You're real, you're sincere, you're a good mom!" Luca, my "healthy" son, hesitated before reading it, then hid his emotions behind a joke. But he made a copy, and with my permission, he let his girlfriend (I hope for good) read it. Thank you, dear friends, for this moment of deep connection among the four of us, always bound together by difficulties of every kind.
Now it weighs on me greatly: my parents in Rome, well cared for by a devoted Ukrainian caregiver, yet still struggling. My father has been transformed by Alzheimer's for three years into a creature dependent on everything, fragile as a newborn. Each day his ability to communicate fades further. Until last year he called me "Dad's beautiful girl." Now he lies silent, seemingly distant from everything—yet not from the kisses and caresses that Ada, his wife of sixty years, and visitors bring him. In his humanity, made up of shadows and light, we used to see more of his faults than his gifts—unjustly. This season of silence has shown us our own harshness in judging him, and how hard it is to speak truths—the beautiful and the ugly—with any peace. I've come to see that I've always judged him, always loved him too little, as if I had a right to his understanding because my "great suffering" had become the center, the screen blocking me from seeing his pain and the limits of my parents themselves. It's a great mystery, this suffering, and God's love so infinite we can lose ourselves in it. I bless you because through your magazine you help me remember that life is made of small, repetitive, ordinary moments—but cradled in the loving arms of God, Father and Mother.
Silvana
Mother and author of the letter "Dearest Friends at O.L." in the Christmas 2003 issue.
Off to Venice
June 27, 2004. Eight o'clock. Seven of us who recently began our journey with Faith and Light are waiting at Feltre station for the train to Venice, where the regional gathering of FL communities is being held. We're peaceful and happy, even though it might seem risky to travel with three disabled people, two friends, and two relatives. But we know that the fewer guarantees we have, the more God's certainty appears. At Venice station, a woman approaches: are you the ones from Feltre? Done. Now we have an attentive, involved guide who leads us at the pace of the slowest and most uncertain among us, all the way to the magnificent church of the Frari. There we meet the others, from Conselve, Vicenza, Venice, Abano, and Garda. Among the offertory gifts at Mass is the Faith and Light candle, which will shine beside two others on the altar.
Small scarves are blessed—each of us takes one home—and letters that Jean Vanier wrote for us. The reverent silence, some glistening eyes, the peaceful faces show how real the presence of Jesus is for our brothers and sisters, whom we so often wrongly think of as merely unfortunate. The mothers, the fathers, the friends—they see this presence.
Then lunch at the Frari parish house, the celebration, songs, ice cream, a small ceremony, farewells. The wheelchairs stream toward the vaporetto; those who can walk on their own. We answer the curious stares of passersby with sure smiles. There's nothing to hide, quite the opposite: "Learn from us, for we are gentle and humble of heart."
Maria Teresa Sasso
You Give Me Courage
I was moved again, deeply moved, by the words of the Polish mother (see O.L. no. 86 p. 4), who captured so perfectly the storm of emotions I've lived with for twenty-seven years. Thank you for reminding me that only God can give us, each day, the patience, the courage, the strength—so that we don't see in our son only a misfortune to endure, but come to see him with new eyes as a special occasion for growth and solidarity for all of us.
Silvana Zamperoni