Tears well in the eyes of Paolo Merli, an ICU nurse at Cremona Hospital. He can’t find the words to describe the emotional battle that he has faced each day for more than a month, as he struggles to care for his patients while living in constant fear that he will bring the deadly virus back to infect his loved ones at home.

Clelia Roncaglio, a fellow nurse for two years, echoes those fears, yet humbly deflects credit for her hard work to the seasoned co-workers who are battling the disease alongside her. Sometimes, she said, her only strength comes from being able to care for people she knows, so she can update their families on their condition.

"There is some light in the dark, but it's really, really small," Clelia said.

As terrible and ravaging as this disease is, perhaps the most devastating effect is the isolation left in its wake. Due to its highly infectious nature, friends and families are prohibited from visiting hospitalized loved ones, even in the event of a death.

Everyone is asked to do their part to prevent the rapid spread by staying home. There are no social gatherings. No handshakes. No hugs. Streets and squares are eerily quiet in the midday sun. The silence is often and only broken by the haunting sounds of ambulance sirens.

Officials from the city, Cremona Hospital, and the Lombardy region joined Samaritan’s Purse staff on March 20th to mark the 68-bed field hospital’s opening.

“You are the first bright light in our dark sky,” said Giulio Gallera, the Lombardy Region Minister of Health.

Ambulances soon began pulling through the field hospital gates.

“That is the only sound you hear during the lockdown—ambulances and helicopters,” said Davide Cominetti, a translator at the field hospital. “It is terrifying because you do not know if it is your mother or your brother on that ambulance or helicopter—it is devastating.”

Patients are delivered in various states, their procession like a strange parade that no one asked for. Some walk on their own, clutching small armfuls of personal items they managed to gather before leaving their homes. Others are already attached to ventilators or oxygen, riding on gurneys or in wheelchairs.

One by one, they disappear into the tents, delivered into the waiting arms of the doctors and nurses who have traveled thousands of miles to demonstrate the love of Jesus Christ through their care.

Each layer of the personal protective equipment donned by Samaritan’s Purse doctors and nurses before caring for the sick seems to erase another bit of their humanity: Rubber boots. Gloves. Gown. Mask. Hair net. Goggles. Second pair of gloves.

Finally, all that remains visible are their eyes, peering through fogged goggles or chlorine-spotted face shields. Becoming invisible as individuals, they rely on these layers to shield them from the invisible threat of coronavirus.

Still, each day the staff pray that somehow their patients will feel how much they are loved by them and by God.

“I pray that patients see Jesus in us,” said ICU nurse Shannon Wood.

Inside the wards, compassion and care is packed into each small, intentional gesture. Nurses clasp a set of nervous fingers, stroke a tense shoulder, or brush fevered hair from a wrinkled forehead. Staff bow their heads when a patient requests prayer. And each one still smiles, the grins seen not on upturned mouths, but in every set of eyes.

“We are covered in PPE and all they can see is my eyes," Shannon said, "I pray that I’m able to love on these patients...and just hold their hand while they are anxious, and that they’re able to see Jesus."

One month after opening, the field hospital had treated over 260 patients, and seven ICU patients had been extubated and discharged. A note from a former patient hangs in one of the male wards:

"Giorgio just called to stay he is doing well at home. He is reading his Bible. He misses you."

When patients improve enough to be discharged, waves of encouragement ripple throughout the tents, like a small feather landing on a pond’s surface. The late afternoon air is often filled with the joyful celebrations that accompany patient processions from the tents to their transport.

As he prepared to leave, Massimo’s joy and gratitude was infectious. Throwing his hands in the air, he brought them again and again to his heart – a gesture that transcended any language barriers between him and the staff.

“You have a special place in my heart. I will remember you in my prayers," said 91-year-old Claudio, pictured below, with his nurses Savannah and Alyssa.

"As hard as it was, watching people die from this disease without family or friends to comfort them...[her playing] gave me a peace that we loved our patients to the very end," said nurse Kelly Sites. "It made me feel completely connected to the people of Cremona."