Tell us about yourself and your family.
I'm a homemaker. At twenty-three, I had my first child—a spastic child. That's where everything began. Three years later, my second son was born, and for years I lived shut away at home. I thought I was protecting my first son from everything, from people's stares, from their whispers: "You have a different child." Even though he couldn't understand at that age, I was the one shielding myself from those prying eyes.
I spent many years closed off because of this.
When and how did your attitude toward your son—and toward others—begin to change?
The first shift came when I saw someone look at my son differently than people looked at him on the street. Someone saw past his appearance. They saw him. They asked to take him not because he could do things, or speak, or eat properly, or keep himself clean—they wanted him for who he was. And I saw everything differently. I found hope again.
Who asked to take him, and why?
When I met you at school, you told me about the possibility of sending Pablo to a summer camp with young people. Then a girl came to school—Guenda—and she asked me how Pablo lived, how he ate, how he slept, how he was with others. The way she took him in her arms, the way she held him... I was talking, but I could see that in that moment, what mattered to her was my son. Just watching her, something inside me shifted: "So Pablo is worth something to more than just me." I had been terrified that others wouldn't understand how much value he held for me. She understood. She held him like he was precious. Meanwhile, the camp idea had slipped from my mind. Then when Guenda came and asked me: "So are we going?" the way she asked it... Guenda is fantastic at these things. It's an extraordinary gift she has.
"So Pablo is worth something to more than just me!"
"So Pablo is worth something to more than just me!"
"So Pablo is worth something to more than just me!"
"So Pablo is worth something to more than just me!"Pablo went to camp, and I found myself alone with Daniele, who was five. I remember going out alone with him for the first time—to get milk, to the store, up and down the escalators. When had I ever done that before? But the truth is I could barely walk. My feet felt tangled, because something was missing: that wheelchair I'd always had in front of me. I kept waiting for a phone call. When they called to ask if I'd leave Pablo for another week, I said, "Pablo's forgotten about us!" My husband corrected me: "About you maybe, but not about me."
I went to visit him at camp. I've always been drawn to what's real, to living together in a certain way—without bitterness or pettiness or nonsense. That day at camp, I lived what I'd always wanted, what I'd always dreamed of. Everyone had told me it wasn't possible. They'd worn me down. But it was real there. When I arrived, I realized I'd drifted from God, even though I'd always loved him. It wasn't just about going to church. Something stirred in me. When Pablo was born, I felt betrayed by something I'd always adored, always loved, something that came from deep inside me. When I got to that camp and found all those young people singing with my son and others like him—"I have a friend who loves me, his name is Jesus"—I thought, "To hell with it! If he loves them, if he loves my son, he'll love me too." And I broke open. "Then I'm part of them. They're living these moments with my son. He's my son. So I can join them." That's when everything began. Those days at camp were unforgettable.
Were you surprised—or heartbroken—when Pablo spoke his first words at that very first camp?
Indescribable joy. I had done what I could. I couldn't have done more. But the feeling that struck me was: "What a tragedy that I kept him from all of this until now!" Because this was what he'd needed: being with others. He needed to receive from others, and I had prevented it. Out of fear. Out of thinking I was doing what was best for him. That joy pushed me deeper into this world I was discovering.
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That first camp was a turning point for Pablo. It helped us both grow, because it taught me that you have to open yourself and live with others. I had complete faith in those young people. I was certain they would never harm him.
"He needed to receive from others, and I had prevented it—out of fear, thinking I was doing what was best for him"
"He needed to receive from others, and I had prevented it—out of fear, thinking I was doing what was best for him"
"He needed to receive from others, and I had prevented it—out of fear, thinking I was doing what was best for him"
"He needed to receive from others, and I had prevented it—out of fear, thinking I was doing what was best for him"How many camps have you done so far?
Seven or eight. Some Pablo has done without me. Others I've gone to—which I'm starting to think isn't always the right thing.
What image comes to mind when you hear the word "camp"?
An oasis. We're who we really are there. No one dominates or belittles anyone. Everyone gives what they can. I fit in because I've found my right place. I work, but I feel blessed to live alongside them. They could do just fine without me, and that feels good—they let me be part of what they do.
I'm there, I watch, I'm content. I go home satisfied, though I can't quite say with what. Satisfied, because we live ten days of real life—small things: cooking, doing laundry, bathing, eating, prayer, which is something profound. We've had moments of prayer that are... I remember: you know the house there? There's a time when it's neither day nor night, when time seems to stop, when all you hear in the distance is a bird chirping and the chapel bell. You want to carry that feeling with you forever. You want to say: I want to live this moment always. I've seen Nanni sometimes, sitting on the ground in the courtyard next to Davide. It moved me—a sense of what's real. These are the most beautiful moments I experience at camp. You see all those young people around you. They want this life, the life we should live always. You should see Giovanni setting the table—the care he puts into it! Claudia washing dishes—the devotion! They're real. They do what needs to be done, they do it well, and they're content. We, though—we're always rushing, looking for something else.
When we're all together praying, you understand what fills people, what fills them. They want this life.
What are the most important elements of a camp?
For the young volunteers, it's coming with an open heart. Being yourself without pretense, without trying to look good or strong. "I'm here to give my time, to live together." That's already fundamental.
For the young person with a disability, growth matters—taking a step forward. But you can't demand too much in ten or fifteen days. That takes humility. You have to stand beside each person, move at their pace, meet them where they are. Some parents expect miracles. Their pressure makes their child anxious and the volunteer frustrated.
The other crucial thing is the volunteers' behavior—their way, their attitude. You need to create an atmosphere of peace and calm, to help weather the difficult moments and tension that will inevitably come.
What do you think is essential in how a camp is organized?
That each volunteer knows the young person with a disability they're being paired with—so both of them are more comfortable. When they were younger, it was easier in some ways. Now the young people with disabilities have grown. They have their own will, their own character—sometimes a strong one. If the volunteer knows them well, things go more smoothly.
"If you truly love your son, help him grow. Give him a push. Don't hold him back!"
"If you truly love your son, help him grow. Give him a push. Don't hold him back!"
"If you truly love your son, help him grow. Give him a push. Don't hold him back!"
"If you truly love your son, help him grow. Give him a push. Don't hold him back!"What would you say to parents to encourage them to let their disabled child go away for camp?
I want Pablo to go to future camps alone, because I need to learn to let go of him. I need to live through that. He needs to know I'm not always here.
Have you ever struggled with someone at camp?
Not a serious struggle, no—but subtle tensions, yes. I can usually understand what's behind a person.
With one young person, I felt real fear and agitation. I couldn't find my way into their world. He hit me in the face—he had a fork in his hand. I blocked the fork, but I took the blow. The slap itself didn't hurt me. What hurt was that I couldn't understand him.
"That first camp was a turning point for Pablo. It helped us both grow."
"That first camp was a turning point for Pablo. It helped us both grow."
"That first camp was a turning point for Pablo. It helped us both grow."
"That first camp was a turning point for Pablo. It helped us both grow."What do you think, in general, about parents of children with disabilities?
I feel like a poor person among the poor.
You see how hard they struggle with their difficulties. It grieves me to see how they live. Some put on a face that seems harsh, and then you discover all the pain underneath. Some seem like they're trying to hide that pain.
Read also: Celebration at Home with Him
What would you want to do for them?
I think there are many things we need to say to each other. But I know truth hurts. For a parent to discover they've built something false to cope with other difficulties—that's hard. But we need to be honest with ourselves and find the courage to speak it.
And for yourself—what do you want, essentially?
I've always been hard on myself. I haven't arrived at anything yet, but I see a glimmer of what I truly need, what I truly desire. I get irritated buying myself a pair of shoes. I need more important things. I don't care about a vacation in some fancy place. What I need comes from one source only: we have to make our lives spring from the Gospel—not just spoken, but lived. If we can do that, we can discover that a little piece of paradise exists right here on earth.
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* * *Speaking for Ombre e Luci
Do you read Ombre e Luci?
Yes, I read it cover to cover as soon as the mailman brings it. I'll stop sweeping the floor to read it. I drop everything, because it's like a breeze coming through. I wish I had a magazine like it every day to stay connected to all of this, because ordinary life doesn't lead to inner peace. I find it compelling. I love the front page, and especially when mothers write. I read an article by someone—I don't know who—who carries enormous suffering inside. How much I saw myself in her words! I'd like to know her, because I could tell she's searching for something more, but she can't do it alone.
In your view, what does Ombre e Luci mean for society?
I think it's not just about making people know the disabled person, but about helping them understand what lies behind disability—what that person lives through, how parents live, how friends respond to this reality. That's supremely important, and not everyone grasps it. I give away every issue I get. I don't have a single one left at home. Because the magazine centers on what matters—things we can't seem to make people understand even in our parishes, even to our priest.
So you feel free to speak for Ombre e Luci?
I feel embarrassed—afraid I'm not up to the task. But I'm glad to talk about these things I feel deeply. It's like looking in a mirror, and that's something I welcome.