Thank you, Lord. It's the first time a young man has sung and played a song just for me. I loved the music; I didn't understand the words very well, but my parents would have been so happy:
"It's a beautiful morning,
and a beautiful little girl is here with us;
it's a celebration today,
and M. came to eat with us,
such a lovely little girl."
You were there, so many of you, all for us and all of us for you. We didn't really do much, did we? I can't speak, I can't listen, I can't do anything. You welcomed me as one of your own; together we made a nativity scene with paper and colors, we ate together and you fed us. We celebrated. We prayed.
I shouted quite a bit, I tried to talk to you in my own way. You understood what I meant: there are many of us like this, looking rather broken on the surface—some who don't walk, some who cry out, some who drool, some who move too much, some who break everything, some who punch as a way of showing affection, some who pull hair, some who talk and talk and talk, always about the same thing.
All of you—young and old, boys and girls, carrying all the problems that today's world puts on you—you were able to see past what we look like. You weren't afraid of us. You didn't stare at us strangely or feel embarrassed. You didn't pretend nothing was happening or just walk on by.
You stopped. And yes, it took some effort, certainly, but you did it with real courage and generosity. You opened your hearts to our meeting.
I've already told you: I can't speak and I can't write either, but I thought that at least for Christmas I should say something to you on behalf of all the others: it does us good—all of us, me and you—to feel our hands held tight and to walk forward together, sure and certain that we can carry each other, and that this way, together, it's Christmas every day.
«Leave no one behind on the road toward the light» Pater Rosegger