Some encounters in life you don't plan. They simply happen, overwhelming you without warning of the shape they'll give to your future. Only years later, looking back, do you recognize that crossroads—the exact moment your life tilted toward who you've become. The beauty of such encounters is that they never end with themselves. They carry other encounters with them, and others still. They are the first link in a chain that gives life new meaning.
My encounter has a date and a place: December 27, 2000, at the Piccola Casa della Divina Provvidenza—the Cottolengo—in Florence. But more than that, it has names and faces, hands and smiles that welcomed me with disarming simplicity, leading me toward what became the most beautiful and profound New Year's Eve of my life.
I left that Little House filled with an emotion I had never known before
I didn't know it then, but that wasn't just the start of a new year. It was the beginning of an adventure still unfolding. Many years have passed, but I remember with gratitude what I carried away from those few days. I had arrived in Florence as a confident young university student, someone accustomed to proving her intelligence and ability at every turn, convinced that happiness had to be earned through effort and achievement. But in that Little House, I soon discovered that no one cared how smart or capable I was. My athletic gifts and quick wit meant nothing there. Each person was welcomed and loved simply for who they were in their singular, fragile, limited humanity. In a word, I left that Little House transformed by an emotion I had never experienced: though I found myself clumsy and helpless in response to the simplest requests—a glass of water, help moving from bed to wheelchair, figuring out which channel showed their favorite program—I encountered an affection and welcome I had never known, simply by staying there beside them.
That encounter brought others with it. First and foremost, it revealed itself as my encounter with Him who made himself small and fragile to enter our story and save us. Through the little ones in Florence, the Lord Jesus entered my story. He gave me a happiness I could never have achieved alone. And so here I am today: a sister in the community of Saint Joseph B. Cottolengo, the saint of charity who founded a great work in Turin at the start of the nineteenth century to welcome, house, and give family to those who had none. Since then, the Cottolengo has grown and changed, but it continues to answer, as best it can, the cry of the poor that never stops echoing from every corner of the world.
Today I divide my time between administrative work serving the Cottolengo's mission across Italy and life in an extended family with people who have mild intellectual disabilities in a south Turin apartment. We call it the Sunflowers—a supported independent living group. Eight of us share the apartment, caring for one another, each bringing her own gifts and limitations. One cooks, another does laundry, another handles shopping. We don't lack for celebrations, visits from friends, outings, and vacations together. Each person has her own activity or job outside the home.
We too easily fall into the trap of doing things for others—so much activity, so little presence. Instead, what matters most is to stop, to look into another's eyes.
The Cottolengo is known to most for its large institutions—the hospital, the nursing homes. But it is so much more. Like the small community where I have the privilege of living in simplicity and joy, a reality very much in keeping with what I breathed in through encounters with Faith and Light with my family.
I also count the discovery of Faith and Light among those special encounters I mentioned at the start. Thanks to a friend, a game of bocce, and pizza, I found myself transported into a world I didn't know—but one that felt like home the moment I arrived. I have often wondered: what would Cottolengo have said about the communities of the Ark and Faith and Light? I believe he would have participated fully and invited his children to do the same. I see a red thread drawn by Someone above, binding us deeply together, a harmony I think can be summed up in words John Paul II gave to the Cottolengo family during his 1980 visit to the Little House: "Love is the explanation of everything. A love that opens to the other in their irrepeatable individuality and tells them the decisive word: 'I want you to be here.'"
There is one precious aspect I discovered through Faith and Light, a small jewel that has enriched my calling as mother and sister in the family the Lord has given me today: what we call in Faith and Light circles "the fourth moment." We too easily fall into the trap of doing things for others—especially when there are many of us, needs are countless, and our best energy goes into organizing, planning, activities. So much doing and so little being; worse still, so little attention to the uniqueness and preciousness of each person. Thank you, Faith and Light, for this precious gift to watch over my daily life—a reminder that more than anything else, what matters is to stop, even in silence, and look into the other's eyes.
