At Easter 1971, in Lourdes, the warmth of a Faith and Light pilgrimage touched my heart. But it took two years after returning to England before I could find that group again, join it, and finally begin to see Giovanni as a person. Through Faith and Light, I learned to share Giovanni's life. For the first time in his life, my son left me with them. Only then did I truly discover him.
Until that moment, I had been too caught up in the care—washing him, feeding him, lifting him, moving him, pushing his wheelchair. I don't think I had really looked at him as I should have. Suddenly I saw him across the room, playing and laughing with young people. I watched the wonder in their faces as they stayed with him. I saw how his great smile passed joy to his new friends; how he drew them not just because he needed their help, but because they loved him and found pleasure in his company.
Faith and Light revealed Giovanni's beauty to me and to my other son, Martino. It showed us the extraordinary gift that Giovanni and people like him had to offer us. As Giovanni grew into adulthood, the friends at Faith and Light taught us how to let him grow, become independent, become a man.
It has now been seventeen months since Giovanni died. Telling this story is painful for me—every word brings the grief back. But I want to offer the gift of Giovanni's too-brief life and thank God always, and especially Mary, for allowing us to meet Faith and Light. Through their support, Giovanni grew in his spiritual life. I understand this more and more with each passing day.
In his last two and a half years, Giovanni became gravely ill and suffered greatly. He could no longer go to day care, so I left my work to care for him at home. Throughout those years, we were held up by friends.
Giovanni grew in his spiritual life; I understand this more and more with each passing day
In his final year, at twenty-three, Giovanni taught me the most important lesson of all. He showed me, concretely, that he had an independent spiritual life—something largely made possible by Faith and Light.
Our parish priest came every week to bring Giovanni communion, since he could no longer go to church. One day, Father Gibon announced that he was leaving the parish to go abroad. The only way Giovanni could express his sorrow was to let tears run down his cheeks. Unable to speak, this was his only way to show his pain. Father Gibon was moved. They held each other's hands and wept for a few minutes. Before he left, Father Gibon said to me: "Sheila, you are blessed to have under your roof a being so pure and without sin, almost an angel."
When he had gone, I went back to Giovanni's room. His face struck me with an expression I had never seen before—something distant and troubled. It was a mixture of anxiety, pain, and suffering. I thought perhaps he was in physical distress, but apart from that, everything seemed normal. Yet that frightened look remained. For three days he was sad and withdrawn. I asked him a hundred questions but couldn't understand what was wrong. I was uneasy and anxious.
Then I found the answer. Was it Father Gibon's words—comparing him to an angel without sin? I asked. Giovanni's reaction was immediate and intense. His jaw clenched, and he showed he was deeply shaken by being compared to a sinless angel. I sat down and thought about what had driven Father Gibon to say that. With kind words, he had somehow denied Giovanni's humanity. What did he know of Giovanni's anger at God? Of his moments of despair? Did he know whether Giovanni had ever asked why he was born so severely handicapped, why he had to suffer as he did?
Giovanni could not answer in words. I wept in shame. Nothing I said seemed to comfort him.
I prayed intensely to Mary for help. Two days later, Giovanni's breathing had improved a little. I could no longer bear being confined in the house with him. Using his improvement as an excuse, I asked if he would like a drive. He indicated yes. We packed a picnic, loaded his camp bed into the car, and drove out of London. I drove straight ahead without direction. I became lost, and the road I took led us to Elsford Convent in Kent. It was a weekday in March and there was barely anyone around. We had never been there before. As I pushed his wheelchair down a path, we said the rosary. Then we had lunch in the park. I set up Giovanni's camp bed, and we stayed outdoors all afternoon.
As I was beginning to pack up, a monk we had spotted in the distance came toward us. I don't know why, but I found myself telling him about the emotional torment that Father Gibon's words had caused Giovanni. I asked if he could help and advise me. I took him aside to tell him that the doctor said Giovanni's life was coming to an end. Then I brought him to Giovanni and Father Michel said to him: "Well Giovanni, I don't know the language you speak, but I want to learn it. Could you teach me?"
Giovanni's face lit up with a broad smile. He reached out to touch Father Michel's face. Father Michel pushed Giovanni's bed toward the pond with the ducks, under the trees, and made a sign for me to leave them alone. After three quarters of an hour, Father Michel brought Giovanni back, and his face was shining like a fire of joy.
A Secret Between Them
We agreed that I would bring Giovanni back whenever he wished, if his health permitted. We returned to Elsford seven times. After each visit, Giovanni was so calm and radiant that—I must admit—I was curious to know what they said during those long meetings. But I knew this was a secret between the two of them and God. After all, what normal boy would let his mother sit in on his confession?
Looking back on that time, I know Giovanni understood that his end was near and that he needed spiritual help to prepare for it and ask forgiveness for his failings. The serene and radiant peace Giovanni showed after each visit to Father Michel leaves me in no doubt. It proved to me how crucial independent spiritual development is for people with intellectual disabilities. Six months before Giovanni died, the prioress of Santa Chiara Convent offered us the chance to spend a weekend there. A room on the ground floor of the convent became Giovanni's bedroom. We brought his oxygen tent. I will never forget the expression on my son's face as he lay on his camp bed listening to the choir of novices.
In the six months that followed, Giovanni's health deteriorated rapidly. He was sustained through his terrible trial by the united prayers of Faith and Light friends, the monks of Elsford, the sisters, and friends from L'Arche. Giovanni knew of their prayers and hoped they would support him and help him die so he could begin his new life in Jesus.
Giovanni died peacefully in his own bed at home after receiving the last sacraments, surrounded by Father Michel and the new parish priest. I don't know what Martin and I would have done without the love and support of our Faith and Light friends when Giovanni died. Their affection and friendship helped us bear this trial. I still find it hard to talk about it, and I struggle to attend Faith and Light meetings without Giovanni. But Martin and I continue to thank God from the depths of our hearts for allowing the Faith and Light friends to teach us to recognize the great gift Giovanni was to us and to illuminate our spiritual life, drawing us closer to Jesus.
Sheila Murray, 1996