The pilgrimage begins long before its appointed date. It starts in the heart of each of us the moment we ask two questions: "Why do I come to Faith and Light?" and "Why do I stay?" Faith and Light is not a job, nor a duty prescribed by a doctor. It is a place to feel at home—with yourself and with others. And for that reason, sometimes, it frightens us.
How can they be happy despite their pain?
How can they be happy despite their pain?
The pilgrimage begins, and answers do not come quickly. Instead, more questions pile up: "How can they be happy despite their pain?" "What has it cost them to be here today, in their wheelchairs, with their physical struggles?" Time passes. Answers arrive slowly, one by one. And in that moment, you learn something you will never forget. First: pain is not absolute. I learned this from many young people who will carry their physical and psychological struggles their whole lives. Watching them, I thought: "Their pain is constant. It will never leave them." Then they caught me off guard. They knew how to move beyond their struggles, to shed everything and rejoice fully in the beautiful moments we shared together. I remember a mime depicting Saint Francis. There was a boy in a wheelchair, dressed in yellow, who could do nothing to act—yet he knew how to shine on that stage in a way that was disarming. I remember the trees and flowers portrayed by young people who embodied the beauty of creation as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In that moment, I understood what it means to "find grace within yourself." We often chase perfect happiness. Even a small disruption annoys us and makes us think, "I can never be at peace!" But happiness is imperfect. It is born from imperfection. It doesn't fall on our heads by accident—we choose to be happy, no matter what. The young people on that stage proved it to me. Second: love stories are not easy, and that is why they are beautiful. This was the answer to my question: "Why am I in Faith and Light?" Many people fall in love with Faith and Light, but at some point you have to choose. Some stay and some leave. The difference is this: those who stay decide to move into the phase of Love. Those who leave preferred being in love. Love is more complicated. It is made of hatred, disappointment, discomfort, and frustration—and despite all this, you stay. You choose to "be there." I understood this through Ghislain. One day, taking the stage to tell his story, he said: "Faith and Light is not just being with, but above all, staying, even if you are clumsy." When you live a love story, you do not worry about presenting your best self. You want to be yourself, with all your smallness, in total humility. You let the other know you for who you are. Then the magic happens: the other accepts you as you are. They ask nothing more. They only ask to love you and to be loved by you. Faith and Light is exactly this. You show up tired, moody, irritable—and for the other person, it is not strange. It is normal. In Faith and Light, the extraordinary is normal. And that is why I love it.
"Faith and Light is not just being with, but above all, staying, even if you are clumsy"
"Faith and Light is not just being with, but above all, staying, even if you are clumsy"
Faith and Light is swimming against the current at a time when only image matters. Someone—we're not sure who—tells us we cannot be fat, or limping, or short, or sad, or old. You must always be beautiful, cheerful, and above all, physically fit. Otherwise, what will others think? I discovered a world where being yourself does not cause the other person to flee, where they continue to be there for you. This is so extraordinarily ordinary that it becomes miraculous. The answers have come, and we return home full of gifts we never even asked for. A boy's mother tells me, a few days later, that her son could not describe the pilgrimage to her because tears interrupted his words. I understood his reaction. I felt it too. The tears replaced every word and allowed us to sense the revolution that had taken place in each of us. - by Isabella Ginni, 2015
