Mother Lucia Serafini, a Canossian Sister from Schio who had the grace of knowing Saint Giuseppina Bakhita, shares a tender and precious memory

Mother Lucia Serafini, a Canossian Sister from Schio who had the grace of knowing Mother Bakhita, shares with us a precious and affectionate memory of the “Santa Moretta” who, with her simple and gentle holiness, touched the hearts of all who met her — and who still continues to inspire and comfort all who turn to her.

Schio, 25 October 2025

I was rather surprised when I was asked to write a short piece for the 25th anniversary of the canonisation of Saint Bakhita. Then I thought to myself: I must truly be a relic! How many people are still alive who actually knew her? I had that blessing, that honour… And I still recall the joy of that 1st of October 2000, in St Peter’s Square, when she smiled down upon us from the façade of the Basilica — she, so humble, now raised to such glory.

I was born in Schio and lived near the Canossian Institute in Via Fusinato. It was wartime: planes passed overhead menacingly, the alarm siren would sound; if we couldn’t reach the shelter in time, we would stand under the arch of a supporting wall, with an image of the Sacred Heart hanging on it, and pray, and wait. We whispered to one another words of hope:

“We have Mother Moretta close by — she will protect us.”

Yes, Mother Moretta — that was the affectionate nickname everyone used for her. She was the only black person in town at that time and was already known for her great holiness.

The Sisters, in those years, not only cared lovingly for about a hundred orphaned girls, and for some forty boarders, and did the sewing and weaving work entrusted to them by the Rossi wool mill — they also dedicated themselves to the liturgy and catechism. On Sundays, nearly five hundred women and girls would crowd the courtyard for the meetings of Catholic Action, catechism, oratory, games, and little plays: the girls with the Canossian Sisters and the boys with the Salesians.

There was not enough space in the classrooms, and my first-year catechism group would gather in the choir loft of the church. As we entered quietly on tiptoe, our eyes would always turn towards Mother Bakhita, who was there in prayer, seated in her wheelchair beneath the window. She could no longer walk by then.

We would take our places in silence, while one of the Sisters told us stories from the Gospel (we didn’t yet have a catechism book in first year). We listened under the gaze of Jesus in the tabernacle — and under the gaze of a Saint who suffered and offered herself, perhaps also for us.

At the end of the hour, before leaving, we had a little reward: to line up and kiss the medal of our dear Mother Moretta. When I think of it now — what a privilege, every Sunday!

When I heard of her death, I was deeply moved. In my childish mind, the idea that someone could die had not yet taken root. But if life continues beyond death, then it is sweet to remember that the first passing I ever witnessed was that of a Saint.

All of Schio gathered to bid her farewell. My mother wrapped us up well against the cold, took along the little baby — my two-month-old sister — and we went to the Sisters. I remember as if it were yesterday: the chapel of rest was arranged where today there is the passage from the church to the little shop that sells devotional items and books. The coffin stood facing that doorway, and so many people prayed, touched it, and then made the sign of the cross.

I can no longer remember whether it was one of the Sisters who cut small pieces of her dress to give as relics, or whether someone else had taken the initiative; but we too received a little fragment, which my mother kept carefully. When she died, we divided it among us — and I still have mine.

What amazed everyone was the flexibility of Bakhita’s limbs: though she had been paralysed, her arms and hands were astonishingly supple. They placed rings on her fingers and even put pens between her hands.

The Sister who was present placed Bakhita’s hand upon our heads and blessed us. That is why, when one by one we later entered the Canossian congregation, it was said that it was Bakhita who had drawn us with her blessing.

I was present also at her funeral — a true triumph. The first mourners had already reached the cemetery while the last were still leaving the convent: she was truly loved by everyone and already considered worthy of the altars.

I remember that public devotion was not yet permitted, lest it delay the process of beatification. Her room was therefore assigned to Mother Anna Dalla Costa, and later kept for Sisters in transit. I myself had the privilege of sleeping there for three nights — I was deeply moved.

Now twenty-five years have passed since her canonisation, and her holiness has touched hearts all over the world.
Bakhita speaks of hope: God never abandons His children.
Bakhita speaks of humility: those who humble themselves will be exalted.
Bakhita is a teacher of forgiveness: if only we knew how to forgive and to love, there would be peace in the world.

Thank you, dear Mother Moretta, for your example of holiness: you did nothing extraordinary, yet you lived everything in an extraordinary way — you fell in love with God, you loved, you served, you forgave.
Thank you, dear Bakhita, intercede for us!