«I like being together!»
«It's nice, I like it!»
«When we together?»
«When... church?»
«Sunday the 8th, yes, you call mama and tell her I have to come».
We forget work appointments, business meetings, scheduled gatherings all the time. But not them. Their appointments are rare, and perhaps for that reason they lodge in their hearts in an astonishing way: these friends who seem unable to retain academic lessons somehow never forget the date of a gathering, a departure, a celebration. Some mothers tell me it's best not to mention it at all—the excitement becomes too much, waiting for that day to arrive.
Meeting friends and parents is always a celebration, provided the friends themselves are there, along with the parents, everyone together. They show little interest in parties where outsiders put on a show. But being together and taking part in activities, games, mime, theater, dance—this is, I would say, a vital need for our friends. Joy shines naturally from their faces and spreads to everyone around them, creating an atmosphere of warmth and welcome that touches even those arriving for the first time.
«What's wrong? Why are you sad?»
And then there are the tears that well up, that sometimes become real sobs or outbursts of protest when it's time to leave, when the gathering ends.
«What's wrong? Why are you sad?»
You might say this hunger for joy and freedom belongs to everyone. But there is something in them—whether by nature or because they spend so much time alone without knowing what to do—a craving for celebration that has always struck me deeply.
I think of Giorgio, a grown man, who at the noon Mass in our parish cannot sit still and keeps asking: «When is the peace?»—that moment of the Sign of Peace, the highlight of his joy at Mass, when he can move around and shake hands with as many people as possible. Or Alberto, who asks me in a sad, plaintive voice: «When do we sing?»
And Giorgio again, who cannot bear the rigidity and silence in which we attend Mass, who invites people with his long arms to come forward: «Come! Come!»
They cannot tolerate sadness in faces, boredom, strained expressions, the inevitable arguments, reproaches, raised voices. In moments like that, they collapse. They become sad, send out calls for help, do what they can—in their own way—to bring back the smile. If someone is serious or worried and no one notices, they move close and ask: «What's wrong? Why are you sad?» And they hit home, most of the time. They speak directly to the heart, without preamble.
I remember Carla in the pizzeria, celebrating her name day. She stood up and walked silently to a table where a man sat eating alone. She alone had noticed him and understood that he should be invited to join us. And he came, and he bought drinks for everyone, startled by such welcome.
And how they notice if something has not been prepared well! If friends are a bit lazy, if the room is too loud, if parents are chatting among themselves about heavy things instead of joining in!
And how proud they are to play a triangle, a tambourine, to appear onstage even as extras; to see their father or mother play an important role or make the audience laugh or be named «the evening's best dancers»!
I won't dwell on the kisses, embraces, and applause they give and receive with such intensity and passion that they sometimes require intervention. But I do want to mention the desire that one or another shows to speak to the circle of friends in complete silence: a few words, sometimes just sounds and barely audible stammering, followed by applause that deeply gratifies them. «I got to say my piece, for once!» they seem to say as they sit down.
Small things, small moments, small gestures. But how do we ensure that our gatherings renew themselves, become ever more full of ideas and creativity, balance and structure, so that being together is truly a celebration, a place to catch our breath, a healing moment in the deepest sense?
This issue is one answer. We hope it helps and encourages us to make more and more room for—and to exercise more and more fully—the right to celebrate.
- Mariangela Bertolini, 1988