LETTERS
Edited by Paola Bergamini. E-mail: pberga@tracce.it

THE WOUND THAT WE
WANT TO FORGET
Dear Father Carrón: The other day, I received the following e-mail from a friend of mine: "It was a beautiful evening. That afternoon smelled like the rainstorm that never came, and the curtains fluttered in the wind. I kept my window open. Everything was so light. Evenings like this make me think that, after all, what we need is just the color of the sky, the smell of the air, the curtains fluttering in the wind, or a room with blue walls that seem to melt into the sky. The sky here is actually blocked out by buildings, and only exists in the idea of this room; it only means something in moments like this, when I realize that I miss looking at the sky. A dim light grazes the surface of my desk, creating slanted shadows of my fingers on it. I put out my cigarette and I decide to take off the mask that I am wearing. I can't possibly not know what I want. This perfect moment can't be the threshold of my own abyss. What tears must I still cry? Forget." Many times I try to forget, to turn my back on this wound, as if it didn't mean anything. The day before I received this e-mail, I had gone to Naples to attend a Mass for the anniversary of the death of three young men in a car crash on a tragic summer night. I saw the faces of their parents. Their wound is so big that it can't be healed by that "forget," which I so often repeat to myself in front of my wound, my need. What allows me to be myself despite my forgetfulness is an Other, who grabs me and keeps me with Him, and who tells me, "Look, don't be afraid; I am with you." A few days back, one of the cloistered nuns of Nocera had asked us to meet the nuns of her convent. (They receive Traces.) She was very struck by the supplement with the text of the Fraternity Exercises. We went to visit her and she told us her story: "I had just become a doctor, like my father. I had bought a house and everything seemed to be going well. Yet nothing was "well." I lacked something or, better, I lacked everything, even if I had everything one could possibly want. One day, I came to pray in the little church of this convent. After that, I left everything and I made a decision on my vocation. I had found all I wanted. Now, I often feel the wound, the lack that Father Carrón speaks about–before my call, I didn't know what I was missing; now I know. Now I pray about it. Now this lack has become nostalgia, because I know that what or, better, Whom I miss is Jesus. Every day my prayer is, 'Come, Lord Jesus.'" At the end of our time together, I asked Sister Sabina to pray for us and for the Movement, that, amidst the circumstances of life, we can discover and give a name to our nostalgia.
Roberto, Salerno (Italy)

RECOGNIZING THE
SIGNPOSTS THAT MARK LIFE
Dear Fr. Carrón: On the final day of our Fraternity Exercises here in the USA, we had an open assembly. One of the unexpected provocations, from someone new to this gesture of retreat, was the question, "Why do we come to watch a video of Fr. Carrón?" This question helped me to reassess my presence there and made me marvel first at the fact that, with a house full of kids at home and many other things to do, God somehow made my presence possible in the first place–He must have really wanted me there! And I was not just present physically. I took all the opportunities given to try to understand the words of guidance from this video using the long periods of silence to listen to Him in my heart. And thanks to this "forced march" of silence, I recognized many of His signposts pointing the way along this path that is my life, passing through the road of the Exercises as well. "Watching a video" brought me on a bumpy street that weekend of truly looking at myself and where I have been so loved and where I have veered off the way, especially due to fear. These times have been marked by financial struggles that caused me not only to fear for my children's future, but also for meeting basic daily needs. The vertigo has been great. Simultaneous to the job struggles, I found myself so much more in His arms–maybe it sounds ironic, but it is true!–that I also worried what else He might ask of me, I who have found such inexplicable love leading to a greater thirst for more closeness with Him. Yet, He has embraced me so strongly through many signs, which I acknowledged again at the Fraternity retreat, that I now see the temptation to worry overmuch as just that–a temptation, if not a self-indulgence. I was also given a great grace in hearing in the letter that was read that I am not the only one who has been struck through the heart for love, and I want to live the accompanying and sometimes abysmal sadness–for my lack, for the plight of others, for disturbing world events, for desire–as "an openness to Someone Other" than myself.
Marguerite, USA

MY CLASS AND THE PAPER
AIRPLANES OF LES CHORISTES
Dear Father Julián: This year, I worked at Portofranco (a study center for kids). The first pupil I saw on my first day was Luca, who needed help with a Latin translation. At the end of our session, he asked me why I was giving my time for free to him and other kids I didn't know, when I already had a job and a family to take care of. I asked myself, "What do I tell him now? Christ could have waited at least one more hour to ask me to give the reasons for what I do!" I came up with a half-cooked answer that I did not believe myself. Months went by, and I started teaching middle school kids. The year came to a close with a painful event: three days before the end of classes, Chiara, one of my eighth graders, died of brain cancer. The last days of school were marked by the pain we all felt, which in some of us was accompanied by anger and rebellion. I found myself ill at ease with the general feeling, because there was something weird about it; it seemed that there was a sort of competition among the adults to see who was suffering and crying more… My state of mind reached a critical point in front of the inescapable reality of a class of fourteen-year-old kids, who were having a peculiar reaction to what had happened; they were silent, their faces showed no emotion, and they seemed cheerful as usual. On Thursday morning, they discretely asked me if it was true that they were not allowed to have a graduation party. I asked them why they were under that impression, and they answered that one of the teachers had told them–in quite an angry tone–to forget about organizing anything for the last day of school, because there was nothing to celebrate. I reassured them, and I told them that we could have a get-together in my room to say goodbye to each other, and that we needed to do it in a tactful manner, so as not to offend other people's feelings. The day came, and the news that my eighth graders had brought cookies to class spread to the entire school. Many of my colleagues were furious; some made sure I heard their angry remarks, while others wouldn't even acknowledge my presence. I told my students not to panic and I helped them to talk, for the first time, about what had happened and about their thoughts. The laughter of the previous days was covering up a sadness they didn't know how to express. I realized that we (the adults) had forgotten about them; we had shut down everything but our own pain, but they were still there. We had misinterpreted their silence for coldness, and we had not seen that their mirth was hiding unspoken questions. I felt the Mystery was taking hold of me, and asking me to be with my students with simplicity. Chiara was dead, but the other students were still there, and they were asking to be accompanied; they were asking to see gladness and hope in me, even within that painful circumstance. At the end of the day, they came looking for me and they launched paper airplanes at me, on which they had written their "thank you" notes (they remembered a scene from the movie Les Choristes). That was the best present I ever received. The following day, they were all at the funeral Mass, even those who had failed to graduate. I suddenly understood that only those who have hope can educate. I thought back to that first class I taught at Portofranco, to Luca's questions about the reason why I was doing it, and to my inadequate answer. Today, I would know what to tell him: I give my time because I have a great hope.
Grazia, Como (Italy)

TWO PLUS TWO EQUALS…
ONE HUNDRED
As "leaders" of the Knights of St. Clement middle school group, we are always amazed at how little our planning has to do with the miracles that happen during our time together with this lively group of 11–13 year olds. We are particularly grateful for last week's camping trip. There, in front of the bare need that these kids are, and that we too are, without other distractions and immersed in so much beauty of nature, no one can hide, and none of our plans or schemes hold the day. Christ's presence is more evident in this simplicity, as is our inability to "do" anything for these kids whom we love so deeply, desire for so deeply. It is up to us only to delight in loving them, and in their affection for us, and to live with them, acknowledging Christ among us. Fr. Roberto is so sure that Christ is the one running this three-day outing that he labels our tentative plans "ironic attempts at a schedule" ! He has taught us to really watch and listen and be changed ourselves, along with the kids–this way to live is so much more beautiful than a mother's grand but stressful efforts to control a group of 29 children on a camping trip. We have found in our work of organizing and facilitating that two plus two does not equal four… it equals one hundred! And from within this disposition, the surprises we witness are abundant, such as our cooking together that produces food that tastes better than home; or seeing 12-year olds kneeling on rocky ground in rapt attention before the Eucharist; or hearing from one of our young hikers: "I have always walked but now I see, I really see for the first time how God has made leaves and flowers, and everything so incredible for us!" A boy who is characteristically silent spoke up one night, "I have never liked singing. But finally I see that Christ is asking me to be present to everything happening among us–so now, I will join you in singing!" And even the games were miraculous: no one was inclined to cheat, even in heavy competition–we witnessed justice as an affirmation of affection and of a unity (not justice for its own sake, which would be moralism). It occurred to us that the games were played as a paradigm of life. All of these facts and happenings have made us, those who "serve" this group, feel fully served ourselves, waited on hand and foot by the Love that manifests itself on this journey we have undertaken with the Knights. For us, this is the hundredfold.
Michelle and Laura,
Kensington, MD (USA)

SOMETHING THAT CLICKS
I have never been so happy and at peace with myself in my whole life. The first time I came to School of Community, I said to myself, "What language do they speak? It's terribly difficult!" Little by little, I got in touch with the object; I read the text over and over and I studied it and I tried to become familiar with the way you communicate. Carrón is really a great man! I say this despite his occasional roughness in dealing with people. I don't always approve of it, but it works; he shakes some sense into us to make us start using our reason. After my third School of Community, something clicked, and I started looking around, asking for more. I finally broke free from my laziness and from my tendency to let things slide even when I don't agree with them. I don't want to settle for less anymore, and I am more direct in showing my happiness as well as my disappointment. I feel a great satisfaction because, for the first time in my life, I feel Somebody wants me.
Sabrina, Milan (Italy)

THAT YEARNING FOR HIM AFTER THE PILGRIMAGE TO FATIMA
Dear Father Carrón: I have just returned from a pilgrimage to Lisbon, Fatima, and Santiago that I went on with my husband and a group of strangers. I have experienced a huge grace. Our guide's faith showed us that his life was dedicated to serve the Virgin, and this allowed us to experience an unimaginable and unforeseeable communion. We looked at each other with the same gaze that he was bestowing on us. We were given the experience of a father, which moved each of our "I" and made us aware of our humanity, redeemed by Christ, so that what we were living corresponded to the desire of our hearts. We were strangers and we became friends; we had a human encounter, we shared our days filled with awe, and we grew in attentiveness toward each other. Now, I am back to my daily life, and I find myself filled with a nostalgia that makes me restless. Reading the first lesson of the Exercises, I understand that this nostalgia is His presence; that it is here to make me beg for His presence, through prayer. I thank the Lord and Our Lady of Fatima, who made me realize the greatness of my desire, and who made me touch their presence in the flesh of our Christian companionship, in the Church.
Donatella, Verona (Italy)

"Who could ever speak to us of the love that Christ has for man, overflowing with peace?' I've been repeating these words to myself for more than 50 years!"I too am repeating these words of Fr. Giussani every day. In living my joys and sorrows, I start from the fact that I am made. What matters is not what I do, what I succeed in, or the mistakes I make. My friends help me to realize that my cry happens because Christ is here, ready to answer. I have decided with God's help to abandon myself to what is already happening. Everything speaks of Him: the GS kids, while they sing beautifully and grow to become free men and women, the Knights who are starting to judge at the age of 12, and all the families racing to help each other daily. It is a race among people that are looking for Christ since they have seen Him in people who are living the overabundance of His presence. It is a race open to the whole world.
Laura Stohlman, Washington, DC (USA)

THE GYM, THE SHRINK, AND THE VOID INSIDE
My cousin came to visit me from Naples. She and I are very different. She is 43, wears stiletto heels even when she is in her house, and goes to the gym every day. One night during her visit, she burst into tears and told me, "I have a void inside, a hole, a lack of something. I see a shrink, but the void is still there…There is something so bad about the way I am!" I answered, "I feel the same nostalgia!" She immediately replied, "There it is. Nostalgia is the right word. Nostalgia for a presence!" She used these exact words (she is not in CL, and she doesn't go to church). I hugged her and said, "There is something so right about the way you are! We are not alone!" I read her some Leopardi poems and these verses by Luzi: "What is it that you lack,/ heart,/ that all of a sudden/ you are full of it?" She replied, "Nobody ever described me this well." The following evening, we had dinner with some of my friends. I told them about our conversation, and each of them intervened with something personal. On our way home, my cousin commented, "I felt really welcomed and taken seriously. What struck me most, though, is that you were really interested in me as a help to be able to better understand yourselves. When I get together with my friends, at best we gossip and talk behind people's backs. I feel you are more of a friend to me than my own friends. I thought that what I was lacking was a son; yet, you and your friends have many kids and still feel the same lack. I was tempted to think that the answer was yet another man, but the nostalgia remains. I would like to be with you every day." I noticed a radical difference between my nostalgia and hers. For her it becomes the cry: "Oh, Presence that I miss so much, if You exist, show Yourself!" For me, for the last couple of years, this nostalgia has been the way through which I have begged: "You, who have taken the initiative, make me more and more one with You."
Cristina, Bergamo (Italy)