Hugh is a refined Englishman in his thirties. One day, walking through the streets of London, he encounters a homeless man—filthy, covered in lice.
Hugh feels a sudden, deep pity for him and wants to be his friend. He wants to teach him how to live decently, in a proper home like everyone else. So he suggests they live together in an apartment.
They find a small, affordable place and move in together.
It is not easy. The man is not used to an organized life. He refuses to pay his share of expenses, and Hugh ends up covering everything for both of them.
One day a neighbor loses his wallet, and the homeless man is accused of stealing it.
The landlord begins to complain about the state of the apartment. Hugh grows increasingly anxious about his friend's strange behavior, but he refuses to give up. He won't abandon him. He stays the course.
After six months of shared life and daily crises, Hugh breaks down. He has a nervous collapse and ends up hospitalized. While he lies in his hospital bed, his friend comes to visit him—and then begins caring for him.
This was one of the strange stories I heard during the Faith and Light gathering last September.
Hugh was one of seventy participants at the meeting, held in rooms provided by the Catholic Mission in Llanelli, South Wales.
About twenty of us were Welsh; the rest came from various parts of Northern Europe.
England, Scotland, and Ireland were all well represented, and smaller groups had traveled from Denmark, Germany, Belgium, and France.
My husband Francesco and I were the only ones from Italy, yet something remarkable happened: we met several Italian families in the Welsh group—people who had settled in Wales and made Llanelli their home.
All of us visitors were generously hosted in two convents and in private homes.
Some participants came even though they were not members of Faith and Light. The idea was to listen to their stories and share our own in return.
Among the seventy present were five priests, a deacon, a lay brother, two members of the "Aide de toute Détresse"—the Fourth World movement—a dozen handicapped children and young people, and some parents of handicapped children. The rest were friends who came to help and share in the common experience.
We ate together, we celebrated, we visited the Cistercian monastery on the island of Caldey, and we had a wonderful time.
We attended Mass every day. Games and songs broke up the more serious meetings and discussions.
Many participants shared their experiences from their own countries, and over those four days together, many moving stories came to light.
Helen is a very lovely girl of fourteen. She remained still in her wheelchair throughout the gathering, her fragile, delicate body folded into an almost fetal position.
She cannot hold her head upright. It is impossible to make eye contact with her.
Diagnosed as having cerebral palsy, there is no way to communicate with her at all.
She does not walk. She does not speak. She seems indifferent to what happens around her. Locked in her own small world, she shows no reaction even when someone picks her up to cuddle her—something that happens constantly, usually her mother or one of us, all of us drawn to her quiet beauty.
She does not resist being held; she seems used to it.
When I placed her arms around my neck, she left them there. Her warm body rested against mine, passive and still.
She smelled warm, like saliva—almost like a newborn.
She was just like a newborn.
Though she is fourteen, she seems about eight years old. I would guess she weighs no more than forty or fifty pounds. Only her face appears mature. Her skin is pale and delicate, like magnolia flowers or fine porcelain. Her eyes have a lovely shape, half-closed, with the outer corners slightly lifted. Her mouth is wide and red, with full lips. It is the sensual face of an actress, not a handicapped child. Eileen, her mother, told us she is not Helen's biological parent. She adopted her when she was a year old, when she was a perfect baby.
As time passed, Eileen realized that something was wrong—that Helen was not developing normally. But by then she had fallen deeply in love with her. She kept her, cared for her, and loved her as if she were her own flesh and blood.
Jerry is a boy of about twenty.
Despite being spastic, he can walk with some help, though it takes great effort.
He does not really walk so much as drag himself, flinging his legs about, his feet turned inward.
His arms and hands are raised in an unnatural position, his fingers splayed and clumsy.
He cannot communicate. He has severe intellectual disability and does not speak. His mother seems to anticipate his every need. He is completely dependent on others.
She washes him, shaves him, dresses him every morning.
Among the many hardships Jerry's mother has endured since he was born, there is this: although he was confirmed at eleven, the bishop refused to give him communion.
On the last evening, many candles remained—from the Mass, from the table decorations, from a birthday cake. One of the sisters suggested: "Let us each take a candle and go to the church next door." It seemed the most natural thing in the world to do.
Each of us lit a candle and began to form a procession out the door, along the path that led to the church.
It was dark, and as we stepped into the cool night air, the candles went out one by one.
As we walked, we sang "Alleluia." Someone at the church door relit our candles as we passed.
The church was dark, empty, and silent. On tiptoe, limping and shuffling, we made our way to the altar and sat down on the floor behind it. We formed a circle, each person with a candle before them. All we could see was a circle of white faces suspended above the candlelight. We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Richard, one of our small friends with Down syndrome, decided to say his prayers.
It was the most moving prayer I have ever heard, and I cannot risk spoiling it by trying to repeat it. Even if someone had brought a recorder, I doubt they would have had the courage to use it.
Richard's prayer went on for some time, and many of us joined our silent prayers with the words he spoke aloud.
There were few dry eyes when Richard finished.
What struck me most deeply during the entire gathering was how many people dedicate their lives—sometimes at the cost of their own health—to the good of others. They give without thought of results (which are uncertain) and without the slightest hope of material reward of any kind.
I wish I could write a small story about each of our handicapped friends, without whose presence this gathering would have had no meaning at all. I wish I could write about all those wonderful people who love them in spite of and because of their handicaps. But space does not permit.
I can only say that the gathering at Llanelli was a magnificent experience—a lesson in love.
Olga Gammarelli, 1978