Many years ago—I was eighteen or nineteen—Mario and I began visiting Stella Mattutina, a psycho-pedagogical care facility in Cuneo, one Sunday a month. We came to play with the children and build friendships with them. I felt noble, swept up in the thrill of doing good for those poor, sick children. I was riding high on the rightness of it all.
The director entrusted us with a group of twenty-eight children—the Sparrows and the Squirrels—who lived in a cottage called "The Woods." The facility had six identical cottages, each housing two groups of children and their caregivers. We became "The Friends of the Woods." When they saw us arrive on Sundays, it was pure joy—for them and for us.
Soon our visits became twice monthly.
At that time I was passionate about the mountains. I spent every Sunday among the high peaks, summer and winter alike. During the week I worked ten hours a day and attended evening classes. The new commitment meant giving up half my hiking trips. It cost me—though I didn't know then it was just the beginning—but I was proud of myself. So I made the decision: I would spend half my Sundays with the children. But the Lord had other plans.
On those beautiful sunny days I was tempted to skip the children and go to the mountains instead. But I thought about how eagerly they waited for us... and I would arrive at the facility with tears in my eyes.
On those beautiful sunny days I was tempted to skip the children and go to the mountains instead. But I thought about how eagerly they waited for us... and I would arrive at the facility with tears in my eyes.Every Sunday we spent at Stella Mattutina, the sun shone brilliantly. But whenever I went to the mountains, it poured. On those beautiful sunny days I was tempted to skip the children and go instead. But I thought about how eagerly they waited for us... and I would arrive at the facility with tears in my eyes.
—Read also: How to fit more than ten years into a few lines?
Little by little I learned to find in their eyes the blue sky of the mountains I had left behind, in their smiles the peace of sun-warmed slopes, in their silence the majesty of the valleys that had always drawn me toward God. I began to love them. And I felt foolish for my hesitation.
On my "free" Sunday I could think of nothing but them. I made little puppet shows to make them laugh, sewed dolls to see them smile, repaired and repainted old toys so their eyes would light up on Christmas Eve.
When Mario and I got married, all twenty-eight were there—to the great surprise of our relatives. Only God knows where poor Sister Renata managed to find those white shirts, those trousers, those jackets. Everything was immaculate! I believe their guardian angels had their hands full keeping all those children so still and quiet that day.
Among the twenty-eight was one who never went home—he had no one. The others, nearly all of them, had complicated family situations. But he had nobody at all. With his big ears sticking out, he reminded me of Dumbo. How could we leave him wandering alone through the empty courtyards during Christmas or Easter or school holidays? We couldn't. So Puppy came home with us.
When I became pregnant, it was a celebration for everyone. Every Sunday the children bombarded me with questions about the little one I was carrying. Twenty-eight small angels prayed for him every day, and everything went well.
Our visits became more frequent. We were at Stella Mattutina almost every free moment we had.
One Sunday I was with my children at the facility. The following Tuesday, Claudia was born. All twenty-eight came to visit us at the hospital. And the Sunday after, we were back at Stella Mattutina with Claudia in a basket—only ten days old.
We never stopped the visits. Claudia grew up among them and learned to love them. Every milestone was a celebration for all of us—her first smile, her first steps. Can you picture a baby at twelve months toddling across a courtyard where twenty-eight children play their own games, three games at a time with three different balls? In those moments I would think: "They're going to trample her! They'll hurt her!" I trembled and prayed. But though she was brushed by a ball a thousand times, she was never hit or knocked down.
I became pregnant with Andrea—another joy for everyone. Claudia was growing. Puppy came to our house more and more. It was around then that we heard about Faith and Light. We made contact with Rome, and one evening, right in the middle of our first Faith and Light meetings in Cuneo, Andrea was born.
Meanwhile, our little Sparrows were growing. At fourteen, they left the facility. To form our Faith and Light group, we reached out to other families and other young people. But our bonds with the original twenty-eight remained alive. The ones far away write to us: "I'm a baker now!" "I'm helping an electrician!" "I'm grown up. I have a job!" Those letters bring tears of joy. They're men now, but I still see them as they were, running toward us, chattering like birds.
With those who stayed nearby, the relationships are deeper still. They're part of our Faith and Light group and take part in everything.
Puppy grew too—he's nearly two meters tall now—and the Lord gave us the immense gift of letting us care for him. Claudia and Andrea are happy about it. They've always thought of him as an older brother, and he's proud to be the "big one."
So here, in just a few lines, are so many years, so much joy.
by Betty Collino, 1984