In Arcene, a village in the lowlands of Bergamo, we live in a small corner of a house called "the Little Madonna's Stall." The town gave it to us two years ago, when our work began. It's an ordinary house—simple furnishings, a family feeling. Four children share two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a tiny bathroom, and (thank goodness) a large living room with Angela, Manuel, Samuele, and Valentina.
Angela is always wearing her pigtails. She's our founding mother—four and a half years old. She doesn't walk (yet she pushes us to go far), doesn't speak (but her silence holds wisdom), and appears not to understand (yet she knows we love her, and she smiles). Angela was the first child we welcomed into community. She's the one who teaches us to look ahead, to plan for her future.
Manuel just turned two. He's a charming little fellow we had to put on a diet. He sits in an armchair or lies on the couch; he watches us, listens motionless (he can do nothing else). Manuel never had a real home—he spent almost his entire life in the hospital. He came to us at six months old and tested us immediately. For nothing at all, he'd slip into a coma. A tooth coming in, a cold, a slight fever? He'd switch off, and no one could explain why. Manuel taught us this: when life is wrapped in such mystery, you pour everything into quality because you can't count on quantity. He teaches us to do small things well—to make sure his food tastes good, the house stays warm, the light isn't too bright, voices stay gentle, music stays pleasant. And as he grows, he seems stronger. He fights off illness better. He recognizes voices. He's beginning to smile.
Samuele is our "perfect joy"—but also our "little pest." He weighs five kilos, he's a year old, and his first tooth just came in. When he arrived at three months, he was almost "transparent," fed only through a tube. Today, after everything he's been through, he's a hymn to life. More than any of the others, he's made us grow—as people and as believers—asking us to sit with his tragedies simply, calmly, with deep faith, teaching us to read events beyond what we see.
Valentina is our "commuter." She goes back and forth between family and community, as her family needs. Five months old and already she screams like a fifty-year-old soprano, especially at night. We're looking for the right solution for her—something that keeps her close to her family but also brings relief and help to her mother, father, and brothers. These children, marked forever by severe mental disability, are the heart of our community. We share their daily life: feeding, work, diapers, meetings, medicine, walks, small steps, big dreams, faithfulness, and tenderness.
We "grown-ups" are four: Flora, Luisa, Manuela, and Luca. Some of us live here because we've chosen it as home. Others come during the day to care for the children (partly for space reasons). Once we sign agreements with local authorities, we'll have salaries. For now, we're volunteers.
We know we can count on a network of friends who help however they can—time, friendship, services, gifts. And we feel blessed to have a board of directors behind us: open to dialogue, willing to accept that our path is full of curves and crossroads, alert to signs from heaven showing us the way.
This is Tau today—our home, our family, our small community.
Latest News from Tau
The children are doing fine. We've bought a house (with a mortgage) and we're getting ready to renovate it in two phases: just enough to move in right away, then we'll add another story so we all fit.
You can imagine the nightmare of debt. The Milan court is sending us another child, so that's five. Six if we count Omar, who should come just during the day. On the flip side, we're not getting more staff: Flora and Luca are getting married at the end of August, and she'll continue coming during the day. We're waiting for conscientious objectors and hoping for some girls from the Volunteer Year. If all goes well, with the new house we should be able to sign a contract with the Region so we can pay salaries for two nurses and two educators.
But we don't feel alone. The sisters at the Concenedo Monastery have "adopted" us in prayer and accompany us every day with affection and encouragement. Our poverty becomes richness.
— Manuela Bartesaghi, 1997
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