I was born in Aosta on January 31, 1940, the youngest of six children. I belong to the Congregation of the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Aosta. I first encountered Faith and Light through Father Klaus Sarbach. I had just returned from a missionary assignment in Sardinia, where I had spent about ten years working in state secondary schools and parish ministries in a densely populated area of young families from across Sardinia and the mainland. The students I taught in eighteen classes of twenty-five were almost all from my newly founded parish. I also sang in a polyphonic choir in Olbia. So the call back to the valley was painful—especially to leave behind that beloved land, where people say you "arrive weeping and depart weeping."
One day a sister told me I had a visitor in the parlor. A warm priest I had never met was waiting. He cut straight to the point: his congregation was leaving Château Verdun, a well-known and beloved place, to return to Switzerland. But the Aosta Valley needed a spiritual guide for Faith and Light. I listened and told him, "You should speak to the bishop." But he had no priests to spare. He said he had already consulted my Mother General: "Ask Sister Teresita, or I cannot help." I resisted. Though I had cared for the poor since childhood, I felt unequal to the task. Yet when he said "If you don't accept, the group will dissolve," and trusting God's merciful goodness, I said yes. And here I am still. Though I think the time has come to pass the work to someone else.
What Faith and Light communities do most of all is help families—who often feel isolated—find solid ground. They gain trusted friends with whom to share both joy and sorrow. For us Catholics, we pray together, draw strength from God's word, and receive the sacraments as one.
To care for a community's spiritual life means, first of all, committing myself deeply to prayer for each of its members.
Our community faces real obstacles. The Aosta Valley is small. Our members are aging. Distance makes transportation hard for those with physical disabilities. Some families still hesitate to speak openly about their situation. We try to help, as we can, even those outside our faith community—they are always our brothers and sisters, God's children.
To care for a community's spiritual life means, first of all, committing myself deeply to prayer for each of its members—for the young people, for their families and friends, and for the whole movement scattered across the world. Then I care through phone calls, texts, and visits. At our monthly meetings, I try to convey the message from the Carnet de Route. We usually begin with mass in the morning at the parish church in Valpelline, a village in the Gran San Bernardo valley. The pastor and his people welcome us with such joy and brotherhood. We help lead the liturgy—readings, songs, prayers. Afterward, in the parish house, we divide the tasks: someone prepares lunch, others do simple crafts with the young people while nibbling potato chips. I generally try to spend time with each person one-to-one—listening, sharing, encouraging, wiping away tears, offering a hug. We eat with the parish priest and sometimes with visiting clergy from other European and African countries, here for study or pastoral work. It's always a beautiful, nourishing moment of shared joy.
Then the real gathering begins with singing. I introduce the day's theme and invite everyone to join in; we share reflections, news of those who couldn't come, and important updates from the Italian movement through Shadows and Lights, from our diocese, and other matters that come up. I subscribe to Faith and Light's international letter, Hisse et Ho!, so we share what seems most important for our time and circumstances. We usually close with the Faith and Light prayer, singing "La comunità," an invocation to Mary. We have a good snack, exchange goodbyes and embraces, and leave rejoicing—encouraged by one another—having lived a day of true fraternity.
