For two years I saw him regularly. He was the chaplain for students. It took me a long time to really know him. His solid presence, his feet planted firmly on the ground—he impressed me. He wasn't the kind of man who shared his feelings easily.
Our real meeting came during a pilgrimage. As usual, the other students had walked past me, their steps light and quick. As usual, I fell behind, sweating, struggling. But he—this leader of men—stayed back. For me.
I who couldn't sing. I who didn't play guitar. I who risked dropping the Eucharist every time I stumbled over the carpet or the microphone cable.
I who looked so clumsy with my awkward gait.
We talked for a long time about suffering. About healing.
Slowly, we grew comfortable with each other.
During the World Youth Day in Cologne, he asked me to be his interpreter—I had studied German—for a preparation meeting in Germany.
Me. The one who walked so crookedly. The one who thought she was condemned to suffer in the back pew of the church. He trusted me. Truly trusted me. He knew no German. My handicap didn't frighten him. What he saw was my skill. We made that trip, and I had to interpret without stopping for three days straight.
Watching him over time, I began to understand what a priest really is.
Not just someone who steers the boat. A father.
One day, in great pain, he held me close to his heart. That simple gesture reminded me something I needed to remember: that my dignity as a human being was stronger than any suffering I could bear.
It reminded me that I had a place in the church. That my weakness was not an obstacle.
Even weak. Even suffering. I could be like a lamp on a stand, lighting up the whole house.
Elena, 2010
Ombres et Lumière n. 175