Treating the Root Cause

On December 13th, 1885, a young woman living in a small mountainous Italian village gave birth to a baby boy she could not afford to raise. The next day, she stroked his dark hair and watched in loving fascination as his tiny hand curled around her pinky finger. She gently wiped her breastmilk from his mouth as he began to fall asleep, his tiny eyelids pink with fatigue. Desperate to freeze time, she watched as the sunset at 4:30 p.m. She waited another hour and a half to leave where she was staying as the moon was half full and she could not risk being seen. As she stepped outside into the cold, with her precious cargo wrapped in rags, she clutched her son tightly to her in an effort to keep him warm. The sound of the nearby surf didn’t bring its usual comfort. The salty air matched her tears as she walked quietly towards the church that housed the foundling wheel where she would give him away.

Laying a final kiss upon his smooth forehead and whispering a fervent prayer for his protection, the young woman lay her dear son inside the wheel and then rang the bell to alert the woman on duty that night that there was a baby inside the wheel, waiting to be taken in. The new mother watched in silent agony as the wheel turned from the outside to the inside of the building and her son disappeared from her sight. She trudged quietly back to where she was staying, eventually healing from the physical pains that follow birth, but never truly healing from the emotional pains of letting go of her precious son.

The guardian of the foundling wheel the night of December 14^th was Carmela Esposito. As she scooped the little baby dressed in rags into her arms, she knew she must help him quickly. Already growing cold from his exposure to the forty-degree night, Carmela acted with haste to put warmer clothes on him and bring him towards the cradle set near the fireplace for the radiant heat.

Carmela felt a special indebtedness to the foundling wheel. Hundreds of years ago, Italian babies were simply thrown into the Tevere river to drown when the family couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. But Pope Innocent the Third was horrified and decreed that church-sponsored foundling homes would care for these children. She took her job as a “guardia alla ruota dei proietti” or a ‘guardian of the wheel of thrown-away” very seriously.  Abandoned Italian babies were often given surnames that revealed their rejection. Carmela’s last name was one of those embarrassing names.

 ‘Esposito’ – exposed. Just like the tiny little boy she was now guarding.  Exposed to the elements. To think, if she had not heard the bell, she might have found him frozen to death in the morning. Carmela shuddered to think about it. She pulled her woolen shawl tighter over her shoulders, something in her soul frightening her.

Carmela decided that this little boy would have a name he could be proud of, so no one could tease him as she had been. His first name was to be Nicola, meaning “Victory of the people.”  The second name must be something strong, she thought.  Carmela chose Marcello, meaning, “Young warrior.”

Nicola was blessed. He was placed with a family that cared for him, unlike other foundling wheel children who had been sold into hard labor or prostitution. The family moved away from the small town to a big city where no one would be able to tell him the truth of his birth. He was spoiled by his mother and often gave free meals to his friends from his father’s restaurant.

Then the day came when the truth caught up to Nicola. He wanted to sign up for military service and needed his birth records. The only parents he had ever known confessed that he was not their biological son, and he was not legally adopted. The foundation of Nicola’s life was shattered in an instant. A tornado of emotions grabbed hold of his teenage mind. Betrayal, heartbreak, shame, and anger warred for first place. Anger would ultimately win. Nicola fled Italy, never to return.

In the late 1800s, the terminology for this experience and its aftermath didn’t exist. Phrases such as “abandonment issues” or words such as “closure” weren’t part of the lexicon.

Nicola moved around a lot before settling in Canada, and then he found an Italian bride through correspondence. He convinced the bride’s father of his worthiness as a groom. An arranged marriage to a beautiful, bright Sicilian girl named Leonilda should have made Nicola happy.

Instead, Nicola avoided treating the root cause of his pain and began to self-medicate through alcohol. When there wasn’t enough money to pay the bills due to his drinking with his friends, Leonilda lived up to the meaning of her name – “Lioness” and took in boarders so she could afford to feed and educate their two children. She worked diligently to make sure they were well educated, as she had earned a teaching certificate while still living in Sicily. By all accounts, Nicola and Leonilda argued fiercely until his death, which their children couldn’t fail to miss.

Nicola’s only son would grow up to be a well-educated man, but by all accounts, he was abusive to his wife and children, having grown up in a home with an angry, broken father. His marriage dissolved and he moved away to a far-off country, rarely seeing his children again. Nicola’s youngest grandson would also be well educated, but he would become geographically distant from his children, having learned it from his father. Nicola’s grandson’s relationships with his children eventually fractured as well, leaving heartbreak instead of harmony.

Just like in medicine, treating the symptoms of a disease is not enough. It is important to treat the root cause. Nicola’s anger and heartbreak have spilled over to the fourth generation, waiting to be cured.

One hundred and thirty-six years later after Nicola was given away in the night, a middle-aged mom attends Saturday afternoon mass at a Catholic church. She is neither a practicing Catholic nor is this her church. Four hours away from her home, and four generations removed from Nicola, she takes the holy sacrament of Communion. But before she does, she examines her heart and asks God to help her forgive her father, whom she loves. She walks quietly back to the pew and cries.

Tonight, as she writes, she ponders her great-great-grandmother – the woman who had to give Nicola away on a cold December night. Five generations, two different languages, and an ocean separate them, but their whispered prayers hold them tightly together.

Dear readers, Nicola was my great grandfather. Meticulous research and translation revealed the heartbreak of his birth, and abandonment, the rags he wore when he was found, his guardian of the wheel who saved him and named him. Continuing DNA research has brought me closer to who Nicola’s biological parents were.

The beautiful church where I took Holy Communion this past Saturday is St. Michael’s in New Haven, Connecticut, where many immigrants from Atrani flocked to. New Haven is where the great-granddaughter of Carmela Esposito works as a nurse – caregiving having spilled down four generations in her family. I have had the opportunity to thank her family for saving mine that cold December night so long ago.

Visiting the church where my great grandparents married, taking Holy Communion, worshipping the Lord, praying for my dad – all helped me to treat the root cause of Nicola’s anger and not just the symptom. The root cause was a broken heart, but I am reminded of the promise that God makes for all of us who claim it.

“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”  Psalm 147:3

I pray, dear reader, that my family’s story reminds you to allow Jesus to heal your broken heart and bind your wounds – to treat the root cause, not the symptoms.

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