It was a warm spring afternoon in 1988 when my daughter Julie was born. I was savoring the joy of it when a doctor told me she likely had Down syndrome. I felt the room spin. Anger consumed me: "What have I done to deserve this?" That evening the diagnosis was confirmed. Before leaving the room, one of the doctors leaned over her crib. "I think you're going to be very happy," he said, "because you have parents who seem to have their heads on straight." His words struck me as inspired. They hit like an electric shock. Julie needed her mother and me to care for her—not to fall apart in self-pity.
My father was military. He passed on to me a "knightly" faith—one of service, of defending the widow and orphan. He taught me to pay attention to others. Yet my own faith remained lukewarm for many years, rooted more in tradition than conviction. By 1982, I seemed to have everything: a wonderful wife and four remarkable children, a good job. And yet something was missing from the depths of my heart.
It was as if God were calling me to a mission I couldn't name. One evening in Rome, near Castel Sant'Angelo, I spoke about this to a priest friend. He told me: "If God has a plan for you, He will make it known to you."
A few months later, my wife and I went on a spiritual retreat led by Jean Vanier at the Foyer of Charity of All Saints. We had only vaguely heard of him. When we arrived, we found ourselves among people with mental disabilities. My first instinct was to run. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing, of making an awkward gesture. Gradually, the experience transformed how I saw them. When we extend our hand to them, they have so much to teach us: how not to hide our handicaps or weaknesses, but to accept them and keep walking. I realized that a handicap doesn't prevent you from finding a kind of happiness. That week, as it turned out, was preparing our hearts to welcome Julie—born five years later.
A year after she was born, my wife and I attended a Mass celebrated by Faith and Light. We went because we held a moving memory of Jean Vanier, one of the movement's founders. We quickly became involved. In 1991, fifteen thousand people gathered at Lourdes to celebrate Faith and Light's twentieth anniversary. On Holy Saturday, my son Olivier walked with me to the grotto for the reconciliation service. The shock of finding myself among thousands of people with disabilities. Their suffering, and the suffering of their families, moved me deeply. When I stepped forward to confess, only three words came out: "I am afraid." And I broke down in tears. I walked away, lost. A disabled person we didn't know came looking for Olivier and said, "Your father is crying." My son found me and took my hand. Suddenly I felt safer. It is in the depths of our despair that God meets us and gives us grace, support, and comfort. We are all chosen by Him, but we must become aware of it, welcome it, and take a step toward Him.
For twenty years now, we have been building the "Mustard Seed"—our Faith and Light community in Ville d'Avray. Our calling is to live in friendship, to be "with," to share moments of prayer with friends who have mental disabilities and with people like you and me. In so many of them, I have discovered treasures of patience and attentiveness. Once I asked Julie, "You look so peaceful when you receive communion. What happens in that moment?" She answered with complete simplicity: "I talk with Jesus. He tells me that He loves me, and I tell Him: I love you too." People with disabilities strike me with the simplicity of their relationship with God. Their example inspires me and draws me closer to Him. They also heal the tensions between people. They struggle to bear conflict. When there is a quarrel, they beg everyone to "make peace."
Today, as international coordinator, I speak on behalf of communities around the world. In any country, when I visit a community, it feels like coming home. The reality of disability, though, takes different forms in different places. I was deeply struck by the desperately poor families of Lubumbashi in the Democratic Republic of Congo. There, a child with mental disability is seen by parents as a double punishment—the child will never be able to work, and economically, he or she is a heavy burden. What strikes me as mysterious, even wondrous, is the joy of these families. Despite their suffering, they sing and dance and hold fast to a strong faith. Like Julie, people with disabilities remind us of what matters: keeping a child's heart always, and putting God first.
I traveled recently to Lebanon, where I met the national coordinator from Syria. What Alaa shared with me moved me profoundly. The communities have remained constant—thirty-eight of them—and they don't meet just once a month. They meet every week. Their hunger for communion and community is so strong. And where there are multiple communities in the same city, everyone gathers together every two months. At Christmas in Damascus, there were three hundred and sixty people!
Yes, this deep and contagious joy that binds and marks the members of these communities scattered across the world needs to be expressed, and sometimes it needs to burst forth—despite danger and fear. That is why the decision was made not to close the Ark community in Damascus, even though the situation is perilous, even deadly, trapped in a fratricidal war that has raged for three years now. There are so many places of conflict, and people are searching for places of peace and joy. "Our mission is to celebrate life and joy, and not to be paralyzed by fear." (Jean Vanier)
Ghislain du Chéné, International Coordinator, Faith and Light, Ville d'Avray—France