by Matteo Dall’Agata

“How are you, Lina?” “One foot in the grave.” She is 96, and always answers the same way. With one brushstroke she paints the picture of the rest home, where everything is precarious. For these old people, every instant could be their last, and they know it, even the less lucid. This is very sad, above all for those who are alone, as most of them are. Life can come to an end at any moment for anyone, but no one thinks about it. We all die and all relationships are destined to end. So is this tendency we have to love our brothers all a deception? No, because on earth we have only the beginning of a relationship; it will go on in heaven. There, we will see everyone again and we will be together forever. It is a liberating certainty. In heaven, I will see Giuseppina, who was gone when I came back from vacation. I’ll be able to hug her, who was afraid if anyone came near. She spent her last seven years bedridden, but I never heard her complain. She preferred to tell me about the supply of sweets that she kept safe under her pillow (in summer, the chocolate would melt and stain all the sheets). Now, I am certain, she is praying for me and my vocation, and I pray every day for her, that the Lord may keep her close to Him. I pray for Dante, too, for Jone and for the splendid Concetta who, now, with her collection of toilet paper in the white plastic bag, is walking the corridors of heaven. In this place, I learned that you can love what doesn’t last only in the name of what does last, and I learned that suffering has a value. The sick and the suffering are Christ in person–Christ who dies on the Cross for me. God thought of the world like this, linking together each one’s existence. In this plan, old people have a special place. One of them, Anna, is perfectly aware of this. She has a sickness that prevents her from keeping still, as if she had a spring inside her. Yet she is always smiling, ready to help others. Along with Giulia, she was the soul of the charity sale for helping the poor in Mozambique–a small sick woman, condemned to a rest home, but who lives a responsibility for the whole world. When you see her, she seems to shine, as if from an intimate, bright surge of gladness. Our superiors repeat to us often that every person, up to the last instant of life, has the right to have Christ announced to him. So, whenever the opportunity arises, we speak of Jesus, of our relationship with Him, and of our life in the seminary. They listen to us attentively. Fernanda would complain of severe pain in the bones, so I asked her to say a prayer for me every time she was tempted to swear. She was pleased at this and got me to write the intention on a piece of paper. I think she lost it a minute later, but the Lord saw it all, and will remember her intention. How can I forget the time Lucia spent embroidering a cloth for our altar? She worked the whole summer, and when she showed it to me in September it was a masterpiece. Wasn’t this a service for the Lord? Hasn’t she prepared for the meeting with Him? After all, our life is useless if not for this. The Lord gives old age to make us realize it.