LETTERS

LETTERS

Facing violence
with music lessons
On Wednesday, February 12th, I was in my new apartment on Parque Carabobo, a couple of blocks away from the square where the demonstration against the administration of President Nicolás Maduro was taking place. In this apartment, I don’t have Internet access and my windows don’t face in the direction of the square. I had no idea of what was happening just a few blocks away (on TV they don’t normally talk about what happens), but I kept receiving messages warning me not to leave the house, because the situation was tense. I was a few meters away from everything that happened that day, from the place where people lost their lives, and I didn’t have a clue. Eventually, I did leave my apartment, and after asking the neighbors, I finally realized what was going on. In that moment, I asked myself: “What can I do in the face of all this?” I asked the same question of a friend who belongs to the Movement. We once said that “the forces that change history are the same that change man’s heart” (Fr. Giussani, Assago, Italy, 1987), and that these are times when we are called into action. What does this mean? By grace, I have been touched by the charism of the Movement, which allows me to realize that, even though I might be afraid, my heart–and its desire for the Infinite–can’t be defined by any circumstance, be it good or bad. For this reason, I was able and had to do something different from joining the crowd throwing stones, smashing and destroying things. That evening, my Thursday guitar student (a man in his sixties) called me, insisting that we not postpone our lesson. The situation was a little bit less tense, but I still had a lot of doubts about leaving the house. In the end, since the following morning everything seemed quiet, and he had an extra guitar (so I didn’t need to carry mine), I decided to go. During a break, we started talking about the general situation, and I told him what had happened to me the day before. His answer caught me off guard. He said that that was the reason why he had insisted so much on having our lesson anyway. He said that music helps him stay in touch with reality, and look at himself and at what is happening at this particular juncture. This man had always wanted to learn how to play guitar, but only recently had he found the time and the way to do so. After hearing his words, which showed me the true value of that lesson, my attitude changed completely. When the class was over, he thanked me for the work we had done. I said to myself, “This is who I am. This is me, Francisco, in action.” The following day, I had to go to a school of music where I have three students. The classes were supposed to start at 2:30 p.m., just around the time when people start to go back to their homes in order to avoid getting involved in the demonstrations. I was sure nobody would show up for class, but I went anyway, because I wanted to honor my contract with the school. When I reached the school, around 2:20, I found that my first student was already there, practicing. I was completely taken aback. We had our class, and I gave it my all. The next student wasn’t able to come because of a car accident. His mom had called the school to let us know. I was deeply struck; given the situation, I wouldn’t expect people to take the time to call. My last student was a young girl (these students are all between 10 and 16 years old) coming from an area just outside of Caracas. Again, given the situation, I thought that she certainly would not face the trip just to come to guitar class. In fact, when the time of her class came around, she wasn’t there. Shortly after, she called to inform us that she was running late because of traffic, but she was on her way. She asked me if I could wait for her. Once again, I was taken by surprise. I waited for her and we had our class. In the end, I couldn’t help but ask myself: “What made these kids come to class? How much did they fight with their parents to obtain the permission to come, despite the potentially dangerous situation?” A lot of things crossed my mind, but after those lessons I was certain that, in the midst of the chaos that besieged the city, leaving my apartment to be myself and give my best was worth my while. It was clearly so, because I know who I am, and Whom I belong to.
José Francisco Sánchez,
Caracas (Venezuela)

The nostalgia I felt
sipping my coffee
Dear Father Julián: Right before Christmas, my employment with the company I worked for–for the past 26 years–came to an end, when I and other colleagues of my lab became structurally redundant. Despite this difficult circumstance, I am grateful to the Lord for the gift of the fraternal friendship that I established with a group of colleagues of mine. Sharing my life with them has allowed me to discover the true and deep meaning of being in the CL Fraternity. The letter that one of my friends/colleagues sent me on my last day of work is the most authentic sign of this. “Dear Corrado: This morning, as I was coming to work, I realized that we would not have coffee together, so I stopped at a bar. As I was stirring my coffee, I was overwhelmed with nostalgia. For the past two years (that is, since I’ve been transferred to our lab), I’ve really enjoyed that time in the morning when, turning my computer on and verifying that you were on line, I used to send you this simple question: ‘Coffee?’ That gesture, which used to start my workday, will not take place anymore, and I will miss it. The nostalgia, though, hit me when I started thinking of you. I’ll manage to have my morning coffee with Marino, or with some other likeable colleague, but what about you? You are the one going through a difficult time. Later, I realized that the nostalgia I felt was for something greater than the morning coffee or the lunches we used to have together, or even all the life we shared here at work. It was the nostalgia for Him who made that coffee taste so good, and made us look for each other’s company during lunch breaks. When I came to this realization, the lump in my throat went away, because I understood that what I was feeling was a sign of the nostalgia for His presence, the only One who can give us strength to face any situation. I felt nostalgia for Him who made us meet here at work, and who helped our friendship grow, both in our work and in our private lives. It will be beautiful, then, to keep telling each other how He will help us face all the challenges that will come our way, with that serenity and certainty that accompanied us during the years we spent working together. I saw His power at work yesterday, in the way you lived a day that, I imagine, was very difficult for you. You said good bye to friends and colleagues with whom you shared your life for many years, and you left the job you loved; all this could have generated anger or dejection, but you were at peace. He gave you that serenity, and He will give it to me too, if and when the going will get rough. He who made that coffee with you so desirable every morning, will make the coffee you’ll have with your new colleagues as desirable. I would like the nostalgia I felt this morning to overwhelm me for all the mornings to come.”
Corrado, Monza-Brianza (Italy)

My first day of real
charitable work
This morning, I did my first real charitable work. Lately, I have felt called to answer questions that were raised by the Holy Father and his insistence on the poor. I was also very struck by the part of Father Giussani’s biography that talks about what gave birth to charitable work. I realized that I freely gave some of my time and expertise for the Movement, but I did not do charitable work. I then decided to go to the Food Bank, asking them to find me something to do beyond my usual task of writing press releases and letters to various corporations. I didn’t want to just give some of my time; I wanted charitable work to really be the sharing of a need. To put it more strongly, I wanted to touch the flesh of Christ. This morning, I went back, I signed the papers, and was assigned to the sorting of discarded products. My job was to salvage all those items that a supermarket would toss: food that is about to expire, torn packages, dented cans, bottles that are not supposed to be sold separately and that end up “single,” and so on. In short, I had to open each box (all containing a variety of items) and pick the items one by one, separate the recyclable packaging material, examine the integrity and the expiration dates of the items, check if the lids (where present) closed properly, fix torn boxes with scotch tape, and put all the sorted material in new boxes, to be stocked according to a precise order. All those items would have been otherwise tossed out. A lady in her seventies, who didn’t belong to the Movement, led me step by step and helped me, explaining that, in short, the rule is that every item has to be treated with dignity. A man who just joined my Fraternity group, a retiree, was there with me. I followed him and asked him everything that I didn’t know. At a certain point, the lady told me, “I like that you ask questions. A lot of people think they know everything.” She was very fond of children, and every time she found a jar of baby food she would say,  “This one is for my little children”–that is, for the children she would never meet. This got me thinking about the people who would receive the items I sorted, and I realized that I had to take care of those boxes so they could end up being in the condition I would like them to be if I were at the receiving end of the process. I came to the conclusion that God acts the same way with us: He picks us up, one by one, with all our dents and expiration dates, and brings us back to a new life and a good destiny.
Stefano, Verona (Italy)

A journey between clouds and certainty
Driving my children to school, I take a panoramic road with a wonderful mountain view. Every day the mountains look different, depending on the light and the weather of that particular day; sometimes they are pink, other times they are dark or white with snow, and sometimes they hide behind the clouds. At times, the moon is still visible. Thinking about what we are working on in School of Community, I realized that when I leave home in the morning I am curious to see what the mountains will look like on that particular day–so much so that lately I never let my husband take care of driving the children to school. I leave my house with the certainty that the mountains will be there, waiting for me, but I never know what they will look like. This experience has allowed me to discover something more about God’s nature. He is present, and every day He shows Himself in different ways; I realize that I need Him and depend on Him to the point that I don’t want to live without Him. I look for Him. At times, it may seem like He is not here, because He is hidden behind the clouds. When that happens, I start from the certainty of having seen Him the day before, and from the awareness that the way He is showing Himself in that moment coincides with my desire to see Him. When I let myself be surprised, reality is rich and full of meaning.
Chiara, Transacqua (Italy)

two beggars face-to-face
I was walking through the financial district on my way to see the Statue of Liberty and passed by a homeless man who was reading a book. I thought to myself, “He likes to read... just like me. He desires what I desire.” It took half a block of “he’s like me” before turning around and going back to meet him. Lying in his blanket below me, he spoke of the book he was reading and also of his favorite book. Eventually, I asked for his name. “Maximus,” he said, “What is yours?” He hadn’t yet seen my collar and was shocked when I replied, “Fr. John.” He was from a devote Catholic home and quickly bowed his head and asked for a prayer. I lowered myself to the concrete, where something suddenly changed. He began weeping uncontrollably and asked, “Why? Why does this happen to me? Why?” He didn’t appear to be speaking to me or expecting an answer. Which was good, for I felt as helpless as he was. Every moralistic thought in my mind left me empty. I knew this was no place for catechesis, pious responses, or simplistic answers to a man’s deepest needs.  In the midst of the Wall Street crowd, I was before at least one authentic person: a beggar before men, a beggar before God. He talked about many things but most profoundly of the things he had done wrong in his life. He was sorry for his sins. He spoke of them and wept for them and wanted mercy for them. From the depths of his soul he eventually cried out, “Father, forgive me!” He was not speaking to me, but I believed the Father sent me, so I raised my hands and continued Christ’s work. “God, the Father of mercies...” In the midst of his blankets and bags–and that book–his soul was reunited with God. His surprise at hearing “Your sins are forgiven” could only be matched by mine, an hour later, at the New York Encounter volunteers’ Mass, when I proclaimed the Gospel and Jesus’ words to the paralytic, “Your sins are forgiven.” I was filled with awe  for the mysteries of God. A few days later, Fr. Carrón closed the NY Encounter by referencing the paralytic man, and Fr. Peter John Cameron said rhetorically, “This all happened in the past. This can’t happen again, can it?” Tears fell from my face. I looked up and said, “Yes, it can.” It did–on Wall Street. I never did see the Statue of Liberty, but I experienced a more important freedom: an encounter between two beggars that brought Liberty to us both!
Fr. John Rutten, Yankton (USA)

My answer to the question: “Who is Jesus?”
Hello Fr. Julián: The first time I “died” was in 1998 when my daughter–who was still in the womb–was diagnosed with a spinal cord malformation, which prompted the doctors to strongly recommend we terminate the pregnancy. Throughout the years (my daughter is now 15), I “died” another two times. The last time that happened was when my daughter was hospitalized for the umpteenth scheduled surgery, which lasted longer than expected. At the end, everything went well, besides some minor complications and lingering side effects. There were two consequences to this event in my daughter’s life. The first was the great witness of the GS kids during her hospital stay, both before and after the surgery. Their open and unprejudiced encounter with Christ led so very many people to send messages and visit my daughter when she was hospitalized. I want to quote one of the messages she read to me: “Don’t worry, we pray for you. You can be sure that Jesus will stay by your side, and He will be able to take care of you and heal you.” The second consequence of my daughter’s ordeal concerns me and the great difficulty that I experienced in facing what was happening. I’m not just referring to the obvious difficulty of a father who sees his daughter go through more suffering. The kind of struggle I am talking about goes beyond that, and reaches deep into the heart, so much so that, for the first time, I explicitly asked people to pray for me as well as for my daughter. I kept asking myself: “How is it possible that, of all the people suffering from my daughter’s same condition, she is the only one who had to undergo six surgeries?” She didn’t volunteer, like some of the great saints, to partake in Jesus’ suffering for the redemption of the world. Yet, she has been, and still is, the object of God’s preference. I don’t understand this preference, and maybe I never will. I don’t feel like thanking God for what happened to my daughter (it wouldn’t be human to do so); still, I am grateful for the two consequences that event has brought about. My answer to the question: “Who is Jesus?” is this: Jesus is the person Who, in these past months, has shown me His suffering face, through the gaze of my daughter as she was emerging from anesthesia, and Who, answering my plea, will show me His good face again.
Adelino, Verona (Italy)