I hold in my hands a small blue booklet, pocket-sized, its cover worn thin from use: Avignon à Lourdes - Manuel du pèlerin, printed in Bourges, France, in 1967. It was the handbook given to pilgrims on the journeys the Diocese of Avignon organized to Lourdes. Inside are historical notes and documents, reflections and prayers, hymns, and the Mass text in Latin and French.
It is one of the last gifts my father, already ill, wanted to leave me. He entrusted it to me as one of the most precious memories of his life. Not the gold watch, not the silverware—that booklet, worn and yellowed. He presented one to me and one to my brother, Emanuele. It is a tangible reminder of a small, profound miracle: Lord, let Mariangela find her smile again; Lord, let Chicca sleep through the night.
This was the prayer my father carried in his heart during the Blessed Sacrament procession at our family's first pilgrimage to Lourdes in August 1969, with the Diocese of Avignon.
Chicca's birth—my sister—had turned my parents' world upside down. Every summer they sought refuge for a few weeks at a small convent in the Provençal village of Bedoin, in the Diocese of Avignon.
The miracle came through Friquette Heyndrickx, another mother of a deeply disabled daughter, Sophie, even before Faith and Light existed. That first meeting at Lourdes, followed by yearly pilgrimages to the Grotto, gave my mother back her smile and her strength. Together with my father, she began weaving the threads that would become, with so many other families and friends, the founding of Faith and Light in Italy and the pilgrimage to Rome in 1975.
During those periodic pilgrimages to Lourdes, my father always carried that blue-covered booklet tucked into the pockets of his safari jacket.
I remember those pilgrimages: the long train journeys, asking the hotel waiters for an extra scoop of gelato. The long daytime services, racing through sudden downpours, and the nighttime processions by candlelight. The shops crammed with rosaries and plastic bottles shaped like the Madonna, filled with miraculous water. The grim old crutches hanging high above the grotto, the cinema showing the same film about Bernadette over and over until I knew it by heart, even in French. The games with Sophie's sisters along the banks of the Gave, the river that runs through Lourdes. And my father, wanting to lighten the stay, taking me to discover the most fun and "secular" spots—the escalators lined with fun-house mirrors where we'd make faces at ourselves.
There is no denying it: Faith and Light is bound to pilgrimage. It arose unexpectedly from a pilgrimage, grew with pilgrimages, took root through them, flourished because of them. And so it has been for me, for my family too.
Then there are always those who complain about the cost, the transport, the hotel, the meals, the schedules, the crowds. Yet we keep planning another pilgrimage. Why?
I remember the excitement preparing for the 1975 pilgrimage to Rome. The care we took painting our community's banner, with the image of Saint Francis speaking to the birds. The emotion of the celebrations at Saint Peter's, my sister Chicca lifted high on the gestatorial chair to receive, on behalf of all the smallest ones, the blessing of Paul VI.
It is hard to grasp what the presence of Faith and Light communities meant at Saint Peter's, unless you lived through those years when people fragile from mental disability were still treated with shock, even horror, in churches.
And I remember, years later, the pilgrimage to Lourdes for Easter 1981 and then Easter 1991, when Cristina had joined our community. And at Easter 2001, Cristina and I returned to Lourdes with our community and two children—who would become four—for the pilgrimage to Loreto in 2011.
The list of Faith and Light pilgrimages is long and intense. Scrolling through the timeline, I am struck by how many were organized: particularly from 1975 to 1986, there were six. It seems we did nothing else. And I see again, with gratitude and recognition, the faces of those who had worked hardest to make them happen. Many have finished their earthly pilgrimage. They are all together now, in celebration, in the Father's house.
A pilgrimage is not an easy thing. It is terribly complex and laborious to organize (don't take my word for it—try it). It is exhausting to take part, especially coming from far away, especially for those sensitive to change. And there is always someone complaining: about the cost, the transportation, the hotel, the food, the schedules, the chaos. Yet we keep planning another pilgrimage. Why?
Perhaps the answer lies in a mother's testimony after the first pilgrimage to Lourdes in 1971: "Since my return from Lourdes, I have carried a joy, a certainty that never leaves me, which can only be expressed by saying: Alleluia! for those who sang and said alleluia when I had no strength to do so. Alleluia! for those who had faith when I did not. Alleluia! for those who loved when I had no desire to love."
Perhaps in the testimony of a father: "If we have come to Lourdes from all parts of the world, it is because each of us can become a bearer of hope. We must leave here carrying with us a light of trust that will kindle other lights in the world" (Lourdes 1971).
Perhaps an answer lies in what was written in preparing for the 1975 pilgrimage to Rome: "The pilgrimage must mean that the handicapped are 'at home' in the Church. Whatever their condition, nothing can prevent God from communicating the Holy Spirit to each one." (Insieme, n. 6 - July 1975, for the pilgrimage to Rome).
Because, as my mother wrote for the 1978 pilgrimage to Assisi: "Encounters hold an important place in the life of Faith and Light: we gather regularly to live together moments of friendship and prayer. But being together is not enough. We must also move forward together."
Because "the wise men did not set out because they had seen the star; they saw the star because they had set out" (John Chrysostom). OL
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