"My God, this is too much for me"
[...] Looking back at my own case, I am deeply struck by this: while it can happen that man ignores God, God never ignores man. Long before the accident, I had grappled with the question of God's existence. Does God exist? And if he does, who is he? In my ignorance, I prayed. He was not a lucky charm, a talisman to shield me from trial. He did not come to remove the grenade that exploded in my hands. "What have we done against heaven to deserve this?" God is not a father who punishes. He is a father who loves, but he leaves man his freedom. So before the accident, God had challenged me to recognize my own poverty. From my hospital bed I called out to him. And when I grasped what had become of me, I cried out to him my bewilderment and my rightful anger. But instead of accusing him for my suffering, I laid this suffering before him, saying: "This is too much for me. I cannot bear it alone." There is a shattering experience in crying out to God your own helplessness—because in that very moment, he reveals his abundance to you. As Claudel says: "Christ did not come to explain suffering, nor to eliminate it. He came to fill it with his presence." The other day I met a young woman who told me about someone with cancer who, through that cancer, had found a deeper dimension to her life. "Don't say that," I answered her. "Otherwise we would have to wish cancer on everyone." Evil is evil, and we must fight against it. But if a person, in the moment of suffering, is able to cry out to God his own powerlessness, God will reveal his abundance to him. Faith, for me, was not an escape. It made my suffering fruitful. "I am the Resurrection and the Life," Christ said to us. The faith that Jesus Christ taught is not against nature—it is a supernatural faith. His answer came from deep within me, in the form of a question: "How can one live without sight and without hands?" The mere act of asking the question was already beginning to answer it: it was choosing life, embracing my handicap. It never even occurred to me to throw back to my companion that grenade—the one he had somehow disarmed and then let slip into my hands to get rid of it. This accident became for me the occasion to discover that man is infinitely greater than the idea he has of himself. But it is impossible to face all of this alone. Who helped me? First of all, that answer I attribute to God. Then that priest who brought the Eucharist to my bed every morning and never once said, "Tomorrow I won't be able to come; I won't have time." And the nun who knew the path of my spiritual journey but avoided any empty talk—sometimes she would simply come and say, "You look sad... I'll make you some fried potatoes." That's worth all the sermons. And then there was friendship. My friends avoided telling me how grave my condition was. They probably thought: "If I were in his place, I wouldn't want to know right away." Six weeks after the accident, my brother, who had come to visit me in the hospital, said simply: "You know, they're making extraordinary orthopedic devices now." Why didn't he say: "They're making extraordinary artificial hands now?" Around me there was a conspiracy of silence. Some were perhaps indifferent; others were silent before their own helplessness to aid me. When I discovered on my own that I no longer had hands, I tried to ask the nurse: "When do you think I'll be able to open my hands again?" She left to go into the next room: she was searching for an answer, but there wasn't one. When she returned, she chose to say nothing. That silence expressed her humility, her helplessness. But knowing that one day I would have to face my handicap, that evening she came back to my room. She placed her hand on my arm and asked me: "What's wrong?" She had probably guessed. When I answered, "I've learned I no longer have hands," she said nothing. Her hand tightened on my arm, and from that day on I feel it as if it were still there. I have never met anyone who gave me a more Christian answer than that. Yet that woman was not a believer. But that day she stood before me as the silence of God—as compassion. She apologized: "You understand, Jacques, it wasn't possible to tell you." As if she had something to be forgiven for. Christ refused the crown the crowd wanted to place on his head after the multiplication of the loaves, but he did not refuse the crown of thorns: "It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me." Faith is not surrender before a situation. Faith is an encounter. - Jacques Lebreton, 1994 (O.et L. n. 104)Quality of Life for Deafblind People
The proceedings from the Fifth World Helen Keller Conference have just been published. The conference was held in Italy from September 25–30 on the theme "Quality of Life for Deafblind People." La Lega del Filo d'Oro organized the event. This association does exceptional work on behalf of deafblind people (see "Ombre e Luci" no. 1, 1986) and we are pleased to note that it now has an office in Rome: Piazza Mattei, 10 – Scala D int. 2 – 00186 Roma – tel. 06/688.020.28.
During the conference, Satoshi Fukushima, a young deafblind man from Japan, spoke about the education of deafblind people. We share some of his words here, which in symbolic form can help all of us reflect on the quality of life for all people with disabilities.
If we compare human life to a climb up a mountain, we see that the most gifted can scale very steep walls and reach the summit with the great pleasure of having overcome enormous difficulties and the profound emotion of looking at the world from above. On the other hand, people who are less gifted may stop halfway up or not be able to climb at all—but at the foot of the mountain they will gaze with deep feeling at the small flowers that grow in a forgotten corner, and they will smile as they cross a little stream with gurgling waters.
In my view, the education of deafblind people—as indeed the education of anyone—must serve above all to encourage them, to give them the confidence they need to appreciate the richness of their own lives.
The work of educators, rehabilitation workers, and interpreters consists chiefly in the practical application of love.
When you "speak" to deafblind people, they will sense the warmth of your love in every word. And it will be as if, in the fog of their silent night, small stars, one after another, begin to show their vibrant light. When "the sky of the silent night" is dotted with the trembling light of these small stars, the quality of life for deafblind people will have been enriched with so much love.