Rome (NEV/Riforma.it), 20th May 2020 – written by Marta Bernardini, translation Fiona Kendall –
“And when you look up to the sky and see the sun, the moon and the stars—all the heavenly array—do not be enticed into bowing down to them and worshiping things the Lord your God has apportioned to all the nations under heaven.” Deut. 4:19 (NIV)
Once a week I would wake a little before dawn. I would open my eyes and immediately look towards the window, where I glimpsed the sky slowly lightening. In the car, as I drove towards our usual appointment, with a flask of hot coffee at my side, I continued to meditate on this landscape. Enormous, almost empty roads, mostly desert and cactus around me, you could see for miles, to where you could make out the canyons. And at that time every week, at every sunrise, I would think: “So much sky! I have never seen so much sky!”.
Between 2015 and 2016 I lived for four months in Sahuarita, a little town in the Sonoran Desert in Arizona, very close to the Mexican border. I was able to go to the US thanks to the links between the Federation of Protestant Churches in Italy (FCEI) and its sister organization, the United Church of Christ (UCC). The work begun by FCEI the year before on Lampedusa had much in common with that which the UCC church The Good Shepherd and the humanitarian Samaritans group was carrying out on the border between the US and Mexico. Thus, moving from a little island in the Mediterranean Sea – Lampedusa – to a community in the of Arizona desert, I enjoyed one of the most intense and enriching experiences of my life. I was welcomed into the home of Randy Mayer, the community’s minister, and his wife Norma, who became a second family to me. With them, and their wonderful relatives and friends, I spent moments of simple daily life as well as conviviality and celebrations, from Christmas to Easter.
There was always a special place for me: the stocking beneath the tree, a seat at the table, a room all of my own, a walk together, the label with my name on to wear every Sunday during the two church services, a hot cup of coffee, lunch with a youth group, invitations to dinner from people from the community, a seat in the front row at a concert, a seat in the car on the Samaritans missions, a community trip to the ocean, a shared moment of silence with my new friends as we looked at the horizon. Every week was a blessing for me: I had set off with so many hopes, expectations – and fears – and I had found a house, a family, a church, a community of activists, friends, so many stories to hear, so many to tell and even more to live.
During those months I received lots of love and appreciation; people welcomed me with great sincerity, they wanted to know about me, about our little church in Italy, about the migrants who were arriving on our shores, about what was happening on Lampedusa and how this was changing us. Because I was in a borderland, and I also experienced what it meant to be a border church. Tirelessly, the Samaritans, with great professionalism and organisation, would split into groups doing different things: missions into the desert, to provide help to people attempting the crossing after making it over the border with Mexico; missions down the most well-worn paths to place water tanks, clothes and food; there were also some who went beyond the border, to Nogales, to lend a hand in a shelter for migrants who had been deported or were waiting to attempt a move beyond the border; there was the group who observed court hearings for those accused of illegal immigration, people who were literally chained and split off from criminals.
And every Monday morning, holding a cup of hot coffee, we would meet up in the church to report on our activities, share reflections and plan future initiatives. I often met groups which came from various parts of the US to get to know these borderlands; I joined their trips and there was always a point when I would tell them what was going on at home, in the Mediterranean. Such were the sea and the desert painfully similar.
At the Nogales shelter, I met many people who told me their stories. As soon as they knew I was Italian, many would seek me out and we would start these very distinctive conversations, a mix of Spanish, Italian, gesticulating hands, and facial expressions which were worth more than a thousand words. “Ehi chica italiana”, they called to me, and with a gesture I was in a never-ending stream where, at last, it was possible to trespass, cross walls, deserts, barriers and prisons. Then the missions into the desert. Four of us would spend hours in a pick-up surveying the landscape around us trying to detect a sign of life amongst the sand, the cacti, the scrub and the midday sun.
And there was the day we met Ernesto, exhausted, having walked for who knows how many days, alone and with no more water. Then, in the evenings, when I got home, there was always a family, a place at the table, a room all of my own, a church, friends, a community. Before I went to sleep, I would repeat how grateful I was and, looking up, would think “So much sky! I have never seen so much sky!”.
| I Can See Clearly Now (by Johnny Nash)*
I can see clearly now the rain is gone I can see all obstacles in my way I think I can make it now the pain is gone Look all around, there’s nothing but blue skies I can see clearly now the rain is gone |
Riesco a vedere chiaramente ora (di Johnny Nash)*
Riesco a vedere chiaramente ora che la pioggia è passata Penso di farcela ora che il dolore è passato Ecco l’arcobaleno per cui avevo pregato tanto Guardati intorno, non c’è altro che cielo azzurro Riesco a vedere chiaramente ora che la pioggia è passata |
* This song was one of my favourites sung during Sunday worship by sisters Lisa and Diane, with their incredible voices, from the The Good Shepherd church.
