Were You Thinking of Me?

Sister Paola Romanelli is eighty years old, white-haired, small and slight. She walks arm in arm with Chala, a tall sixteen-year-old boy, dark-skinned and lanky. Chala loved nothing more than to sit in the driver's seat of a car and stay there; whenever he could find one with an unlocked door, he'd slip inside. Paola, a nun of the Infant Jesus, had to work hard to pry that long-limbed boy out again. But how had it come to pass that Sister Paola, a high school literature teacher recently retired, was living in the house where Chala lived—a boy who had arrived from Ethiopia at age four with severe autism and very limited vision? Casa Betania, founded by Silvia and Giuseppe, is a true family home that welcomes children and mothers in serious difficulty and helps them escape a crushing condition to move toward as normal a life as possible. In twenty-six years, more than four hundred children and mothers have passed through its doors, with help from many staff members, specialists, and volunteers. One of them, coming one afternoon a week, was Sister Paola. This is the beginning of a beautiful story—of a family entirely special, sustained by many people who stand with them, and of two children who grow up at peace despite their disabilities. "I was volunteering one evening a week. One evening as I was leaving, Silvia stopped me. She wanted to talk about her dream: giving a home and a family to two children, Chala and Andrea, who because of their disabilities would never find an adoptive family. 'You know so many people through your school work,' she said. 'Do you know anyone—someone older, who loves children, willing to come live with them?' I froze. It hit me like a thunderbolt, like sudden love. I heard myself say: 'Are you thinking of me?' 'No, I promise you, but—would you want to?' I was shaken. The words of my founder, Nicola Barrè, came back to me: 'Whoever receives a poor and abandoned child receives Jesus Christ twice over.' Was the Lord waiting for me here? I took a few days to pray and reflect, then asked permission from my superiors. And so, in September 2002, I began Casa Chala with Mariana, her little Diana, and the two boys, Chala and Andrea." "This is the beginning," Sister Paola continues, "of a beautiful story, of a family wholly special, with so many people around us who support us, who help us, and of two children who grow up at peace despite their disabilities. Then other children came, one by one. Two more houses were born, forming a larger family, enriched over the years by a stream of young staff members full of life and energy. It's not as though difficulties haven't come—far from it. There have been hard work, illness, disappointment, small struggles and misunderstandings like everywhere else, in all families and in every life. Then the death of little Miriam, after so much suffering. But the satisfactions have been many: watching the young people grow, improving in health beyond what we expected, reaching goals we'd set, going through school and building relationships with teachers and classmates, taking on activities that once seemed impossible for them. And all those small daily joys: birthday parties, trips to the park or the lake, so many Sundays at the homes of friends, summers by the sea at Angela's place. Sometimes friends or relatives would ask me: 'But how do you live with children who don't speak?' Honestly, I didn't even notice anymore! These children, even without speech, have their own way of expressing themselves, of communicating, and love understands it easily. So the years went by peacefully—thirteen of them, to be exact. In 2015 I had to leave Casa Chala, but for a while I kept going at least twice a week." I ask Sister Paola if her bond with any particular child became especially close. "Yes, with Andrea. When he arrived at Casa Betania he was six months old. He was often sick. He needed physical therapy: his hands wouldn't open and close, and his little legs were all twisted. His mother had rejected him. Now, at eighteen, he's truly changed."