The Cottolengo
It is as big as a building, but it’s a home. It is a home for people with severe disabilities (mental and/or physical) who would have nowhere else to go but the streets if the nuns Las hermanas servidoras de Jesús did not welcome them there, at the top of Mount Carmel, right next to the Park Güell. And when, from the windows of the third floor where I am assigned, I look over the view of Barcelona, all the way to the sea, I reflect on the meaning of the word poor. The residents here are poor, too poor to stay with their families, for instance, but even the princes of this city do not have a view like this. God really takes care of his friends.
Patients, sisters and volunteers live together day by day, then and I believe that the word that best describes this historic institution is joie de vivre. Even though the work is hard, and the situations one confronts there are not always easy, we never seem to perceive any suffering. The sisters are commited to work with joy and, above all, love.
I joined as a volunteer in 2023, with a less than regular track record, but every time I go back, observing the nuns, I learn a new definition of this word of love.
In the morning, it's a battlefield. There's a lot to do and little time to do it. In spite of this, I've seen them ‘waste’ a good hour finishing something they could easily have done in twenty minutes. Because ‘when the bed is neatly made and each bed has its little flower and soft toy, it looks prettier.’
It is not logic that governs this house, it is love. One shall get used to it.
A lot has changed in four months. I needed a break to focus on writing after spending the whole summer climbing the hill on foot, twice or thrice a week. But when I returned, things had naturally moved on.
Sister Sarah, who taught me everything, has left. She was sent to Valencia, leaving me a letter in the Mother Superior's pockets, which I reread when I feel ambition taking over from the important things. One of the beds is empty, a rose placed on the pillow, and no one mentions the name of the little girl who left us this summer. Finally, the Sister in charge of the third floor is now the young prodigy who started as a volunteer two years before me and is now the bride of Christ, promised to serve.
I felt like a deserter, all that time, tapping away at my keyboard, telling myself it was for a good cause, that it was my lifelong dream to be a writer. Then I realised that the reality was much simpler, and therefore much harder to accept:
Life doesn't ask for permission to enter. She doesn't wait, she invites. And if you're too busy to respond, she will invite others. —
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