I
Maria Rosaria was spastic, paralyzed by polio, retarded—she was 53 years old, but seemed like a six-year-old—deaf, and she had cancer.
My "great" faith turned out to be more fragile than I thought. So I learned a hard lesson in humility too.
Why?
Lord, why?
Answer No. 1 (in general terms)
Human beings MUST suffer. It doesn't matter whether they have done wrong or are innocent. Pain is part of life. It's essential, inescapable, like death itself. This is because—for believers—humankind, by its nature, has rebelled against the Creator's love and misuses its freedom.
There's the logic, then. Reasoning at the level of "humankind," an answer exists.
But when you look at the lives of individual people, you see that some suffer far more than others. And often the best suffer more than the worst.
Many of these judgments are certainly subjective. No one can truly weigh another person's suffering. Yet there is evidence that's hard to dispute—as in Maria Rosaria's case—where the average threshold of pain is objectively exceeded and the sufferer is objectively innocent. Why that person, then?
Answer No. 2—(atheist)
One could invoke the illogical and irrational criterion of "chance": reduce it to a matter of luck or bad luck.
If you accept that solution, you must also accept that human life is governed by... nothing (!)
Answer No. 3—(believer)
You hold fast to the belief that there is meaning, logic, a design that for humans is and remains a MYSTERY.
II
Jesus Christ gave Answer No. 3. And he revealed something more: that the mysterious design underlying everything is a design of Love. A mysterious plan, but magnificent, for all human beings. A design that includes Maria Rosaria, me writing this, you reading it.
We are dramatically free to believe it or not, and so to choose hope or despair.
At eighteen, I chose despair (partly because of the fascination that existentialist and nihilist philosophers had exerted on me).
Today I choose hope. Here's why:
- I choose to listen to and understand the testimonies of so many other people (living and dead, modern and ancient, famous and unknown) who have lived through this existential struggle;
- I discovered, looking back at my own past life, that many sufferings—unbearable and incomprehensible at the time—in light of what followed, made Sense;
- I have felt the pain and joy of childbirth;
- I have felt the real—but invisible—presence of Jesus and Mary beside me;
- I have "felt" the Communion of Saints (I haven't had visions, I haven't performed miracles, I haven't walked on water, don't worry...);
- because I choose to believe God's Word. All of it. Those who are "Christian," who belong to Christ, must accept it radically—all or nothing. The Word says that the Creator NEVER permits suffering, pain, the trials of life, to be greater than what we are able to bear. (Mt. 11:30; 1 Cor. 10:15).
And we return to mystery: "Where I am weak, then I am strong," says Saint Paul. Maria Rosaria, with all her handicaps, is stronger and more capable than I am because she can endure and bear all of this.
"A stumbling block to the Jews, foolishness to the pagans," "like a lamb led to slaughter," she completes what is lacking in the Cross of Christ for the salvation of my soul and the souls of people of goodwill.
Because I don't have enough strength for myself: she gives it, for both of us.
III
On March 8, 2007, around 9:30 in the morning, peacefully, in her sleep, Maria Rosaria stopped suffering.
Thank God death did not come after one of those respiratory crises during which she would open her innocent, frightened blue eyes, clench her fists, call for help...
Until the end she clung to life with tooth and nail, despite her suffering.
Some time ago, the thought crossed my mind—with horror—that "letting" her die could be a mercy. Now I am more convinced than ever that she absolutely and desperately, in any case, wanted to live. The "poor thing, let's end her suffering" is decidedly and surely ONLY a selfish act aimed at ending the pain (which may be immense) of the person caring for her.
Besides, pain management therapies are quite good at easing physical suffering without putting the patient into a complete stupor. After all, a poet wrote "I have never clung to life so fiercely" when faced with death.
I came to understand... no. I did not understand. But I view with less cynicism and skepticism now those mystics who speak of the beauty of the Cross. That Christ is the Beauty that will overcome the world—fine. But that the Man of Sorrows, bleeding and crucified, should nevertheless always be Beauty, etc.—that I simply could not accept. Yet in MR's final weeks I glimpsed something of this. I was telling my son that if he wanted, he could come with me to the hospital, and I was about to add, "Of course, it's a painful thing." Then I stopped myself: "No, it's not painful. It's sad, very sad. It breaks the heart, but it's not painful. The contemplation of Christ on the Cross is Beauty nonetheless."
Don't ask me to explain further.
I couldn't.
Caring for an innocent who suffers is a profoundly Marian experience. You need not suffer yourself to "bear a cross." To witness the suffering of someone you love, especially if they are innocent, hurts terribly. Who knows what Maria suffered on Golgotha? I would say perhaps the Mother's pain was greater than the Son's...
I remember when my children were sick, even a simple stomachache or earache cuts deeper into the mother than into the child. The child screams, despairs; the mother cannot fall apart. She must stay clear so she can act and do what is necessary. She must be there, present, even if there is nothing she can do.
All of that, multiplied a hundredfold, with someone as precious to you as MR. And all of it raised to an infinite power on Golgotha.
Though we will never understand the mystery of human suffering, we know for certain that they lived it through completely, to the bitter end they drank the cup, both He and His Mother.
IV
She was no angel in life. Quite the opposite—she was determined and stubborn (and jealous too!). If she could get away with it, she'd cheat to get what she thought was right. And if she couldn't manage the cheating, she'd ask you, please, to cheat against yourself, so she could win...
More spirited than sweet. She didn't hesitate to give orders, and God help you if the order wasn't followed to the letter! Besides, the people she loved were "hers." But get to know her well, in intimacy, and she'd reveal herself as gentle and defenseless. Like when she brushed her teeth. Or when she dressed herself and said she wanted to do it alone. (And she did it alone. Everything.)
What did I learn from Maria Rosaria?
From her I learned what true friendship is. I learned what it means to love freely, with nothing in return.
From her I learned to speak in few words. Through deeds more than words.
From her I learned patience.
From her I learned a sense of humor that was unique and rare.
From her I learned faithfulness.
From her I learned to see people as beautiful (myself included) regardless of what they look like.
From her I learned to sing without sound.
With her I was always happy.
What I will carry in my heart forever is her smile.
The cruelest thing was that this illness took that smile away.
Francesca R. Poleggi, 2007
Dear Francesca,
Pain, suffering, misfortune, calamity—different words for the wounds of the individual and of humanity—present themselves to us as an "enemy," as something that shouldn't exist, yet we must reckon with it because it does. To question suffering is important, and that is why your reflections matter. First of all for you, who have worked through them, and then for those who read them, because in turn they will be challenged to think, and it may become an opportunity for further reflection.
It is clear that while suffering remains a "mystery" for everyone, for us believers
it is illumined by the cross, which itself remains a "mystery" but a "mystery full of hope."
Maria Rosaria (whom I was called to anoint with the Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick) was at peace during the ritual, though beforehand she had shown some signs of distress, and at the end she gave an ardent kiss to the crucifix. Maria Rosaria and the Crucifix united in an embrace: here—as you yourself say—we find a light, not to understand perhaps, but to glimpse the redemptive value of suffering...
A fraternal greeting
Father Carlo, 2007
