My journey with Don Francesco began around 1975, when my son Andrea—deaf-blind from birth—was preparing for his First Communion. I spoke with the priest in my parish about it. He told me he didn't feel equipped for the task, but he promised to introduce me to a priest with an extraordinary gift for loving children with disabilities.
He was right.
Don Francesco came to our house one afternoon around four o'clock. I was sitting on the sidewalk in front with Andrea, trying to keep him awake so he would sleep through the night. Don Francesco sat down beside us on the curb. He began to caress Andrea, who usually pushed everyone away—but this time he grew calm and let himself be held.
For many years, Don Francesco's presence remained precious in our home and at our Fede e Luce gatherings. I think of Lourdes in 1981, where he was there again—organizer, comfort, strength for families in crisis.
One memory stands out. I had been in a car accident and couldn't drive Andrea to the Cooperativa "Insieme" where he spent his days. Don Francesco came every morning to pick us up. He drove us with such simplicity and love, though the sacrifice cost him dearly. Yet he never made us feel the weight of it. If anything, he was the one thanking us.
These thirty years have been filled with love because of him. He taught us to accept the grave challenges that come with raising a son so profoundly disabled—not with bitterness, but with gentleness and even joy.
We were also blessed to know his sisters, who stood by us mothers with the same devotion he showed.
I remember the Sunday Masses with our children moving restlessly through the church, crying, calling out. We parents felt no need to apologize. It seemed to us that our children, in their own way, were present and participating. We felt held together in a single embrace.
Giancarla Ferrari, 2005
