We wave goodbye to a child we have been talking to and open the sliding door, taking care to close it immediately behind us. We are in the general pediatrics ward of the Bambin Gesù hospital in Rome, where every Saturday, together with Gianpaolo, another seminarian, we visit the young patients.
We look at our watches: we still have time for one more room. As usual, we knock and look in, introducing ourselves as seminarians. As usual, they look at us with surprise: no one is expecting visitors. We find two beds and two camp beds occupied: as the patients are minors, at least one parent must stay with them, even during the night. Heads rise and scrutinize us carefully, some people grimace, but the adults seem to give the green light. We stand in front of Michela’s bed, a 15-year-old girl with eating disorders, and attempt an initial approach.
Gianpaolo and I are curious to know who she is, where she comes from, and what she studies. She responds in monosyllables, her eyes downcast on her cell phone and one hand covering her mouth. The challenge is difficult, but we don’t lose heart. After a few minutes, we manage to elicit a slight smile from her, and her hands, previously busy rubbing her lips, are now lowered.
“How can we love this girl?”
Time is up. We say goodbye to Michela, her mother, and the patients on the other bed. Before we get to the car, Gianpaolo and I talk a little. The question comes naturally: “How can we love this girl?” We cannot solve her problem, and the company we can offer her is very limited. Apparently, Michela is just a person who passed through our lives for a few minutes and whom we will never meet again.
After a week, we returned to Bambin Gesù. We are apprehensive: perhaps Michela would like to be alone with her mother, without two strangers intruding on their intimacy. We find the door to her room open and, remaining outside, we peek inside to decide what to do. And there a small miracle happens.
A blond head stretches out, appearing in our field of vision, perhaps attracted by the laughter exchanged with the nurses. She looks at us for a few seconds and finally smiles.
Often, when I enter a hospital room, I worry about having to communicate something about what I am experiencing in the seminary, about my relationship with Jesus that has changed my life. In that moment, I realized that it is I who am to be welcomed, that it is He who is reaching out to me through these people who, despite everything, invite me to spend time with them.
And we, from that smile, are welcomed. We are welcomed by Michela and her mother’s desire to talk and laugh. And there, in a hospital room, with the machines rumbling intermittently, we are at Someone’s home.
