I met Mariangela at Scuola Serena, where her daughter Francesca and my daughter Sabina—both severely disabled—sat at the same desk. I came to know her through our daughters, and also because she was deeply involved in the school.
At first, I didn't warm to her. She struck me as one of those people who tell you all about themselves, whether you care or not. I'd overhear her talking to other parents about a camping trip they'd taken. I didn't want to be drawn in. I'd say to Francesco, my husband: we have our own burden; we don't need to join a crowd of others.
That's how we first heard about Fede e Luce. I wasn't enthusiastic. Francesco was.
They held their gatherings on Sunday at the Nazareth institute. Francesco wanted to bring Sabina. I went along, but only because I didn't like the idea of staying home alone. When we passed through the gate, we stopped. The large courtyard was empty except for a cluster of people in the distance. Then a girl, Guenda, came running toward us and greeted Sabina warmly. A moment later, she turned and greeted Francesco and me. It struck us deeply—because usually other people ignored Sabina, pretended not to see her.
That was my first meeting with Mariangela, and my first encounter with Fede e Luce. And the more I came to know Mariangela, the more my respect for her grew, until there was nowhere higher for it to go.
Through Mariangela, I met her husband, Paolo Bertolini. I believe that all the remarkable work Mariangela accomplished—truly remarkable—she could never have done without Paolo at her side. Not least because they had two other children besides Francesca, and Mariangela was often away from home. In my view, Mariangela and Paolo share equal credit: together they worked a miracle. The miracle of Fede e Luce. Like that first pilgrimage to Lourdes with roughly four thousand handicapped people in 1971. Everyone returned home handicapped as before, but their parents came back smiling, having made plans to meet again. That's the miracle: putting a little joy into those families in place of the sorrow that their circumstances had brought.
I won't say more about what Mariangela meant to me, because I'd only repeat what others have written on these pages. But I want to tell you about a moment—just a few seconds—that I believe no one else has shared.
We were at the end of the second pilgrimage to Lourdes in 1981. We were accompanied by Monsignor Ragonese, bishop of North Rome. Nearly everyone had already left the special train and gone home. Mariangela was standing alone on the platform. The bishop approached her, took her hand, and kissed it. That moved me deeply—because usually we are the ones who kiss the bishop's hand.
For me, that gesture measured who Mariangela was.
Olga Burrows Gammarelli, 2014