I first encountered Fede e Luce through Mariangela. She was my gateway, and together with the Carro, she opened a window onto this world that struck me as both special and surprising from the very start.
For the past five years, I've been working with Ombre e Luci, and that window has opened wider still. Slowly, I've come to feel like a friend of Fede e Luce myself—even though I'm not officially part of it, because, as Cristina jokes, I haven't yet made my "little house."
When I first heard about the pilgrimage to Assisi, I knew I wanted to go. I wanted to be with the many friends I'd come to know over time, and with those I knew only from photographs, phone calls, or the magazine's pages. I wanted to meet these people all together, to see them as Fede e Luce.
So I set out with the San Gregorio community, feeling a bit like a correspondent for Ombre e Luci.
The experience was intense and deeply moving. Hearing the Pope speak about people with disabilities in Saint Peter's Square touched me profoundly—I felt he was speaking about me too. On the first day in Assisi, I felt something close to intoxication. The plaza before the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli was alive with color: nearly a thousand people from every corner of Italy, their banners unfurled. I felt a genuine surge of friendship toward all of them. And finally—after seeing dozens and dozens of photographs in the archives—I got to watch the famous mimes and other performances in person.
But as with everyone else, joy and emotion visited my heart in countless other moments. One stands out: the memory of Mariangela. That particular feeling was sharp because I had so wanted to experience my first Fede e Luce pilgrimage with her.
In the chaos of the book sale, while my mind struggled not to short-circuit under the relentless requests for trading cards and duplicates, I had the chance to put names to faces. For years, I'd known these names—our subscribers—but only on paper. Now I met them in person. There was one woman in particular who sends us our community's subscription list each year, with such care and precision. I encountered friends and young people who had written for the magazine or been written about in it. Friends who call us, friends who contribute photographs. Putting faces to those familiar names brought me real joy.
Emotion after emotion: the candlelit procession to the Basilica of Saint Francis was deeply moving, as was the vigil, the singing in the square. The only rough moment came when we feared we'd have to walk back on foot with the young people and children, thanks to the inflexibility of some bus drivers. But other drivers stepped in with great kindness and flexibility, and it all worked out beautifully.
I participated in every activity as someone who doesn't yet know how to swim but jumped into the water cheerfully, with trust and curiosity. Gradually, different moments let me see what was happening around me with new eyes. Only at the very end did I realize I was swimming too.
On the first day, I was struck—and perhaps slightly bothered—by the repetitive behaviors of some of the young people, by their charming and shameless intrusiveness. But gradually, like pieces of a mosaic, everything fit perfectly into place in my mind.
I had committed to staying close to Pietro, who—for those who don't know him, and I suspect there aren't many—is a tall, sturdy man. I've known Pietro for many years; we see each other in various parish activities. And given my advancing age, his steady pace worked well with my limited strength. So I joked with him: "Pietro, give me your arm on the road—I'm a bit wobbly when I walk!" There was a hint of affectionate condescension in what I said. But my attitude had to shift there too. From the first day, as we walked together, I was struck by how many people from all over Italy would stop us when they saw him. They'd greet him, chat with him—people I didn't know. I'd stand there smiling, waiting while he finished his hellos and his "do you remember" exchanges. During the candlelit procession to the Basilica, I had to lean on Pietro's arm in earnest. That evening, by torchlight, amid the emotion of the singing and prayers, as I struggled to keep pace with his swift stride, I found myself wondering: which of us was actually supporting the other?
On the last day, during Mass at Santa Maria degli Angeli, I felt truly united with everyone there. I followed the liturgy undistracted, and I barely noticed the wheelchairs. Yet at my own parish, Santa Silvia, I always notice them right away when a Fede e Luce community is there. That morning, I saw no distinction between disabled and non-disabled friends. I thought, "I've gotten used to it." Maybe that was true. But what a beautiful habit—to be all together, so much so that you stop seeing the differences, or at least stop being struck by them or surprised by them. The words came naturally to me: "It's all so normal." We were all the same, all clinging to the same welcoming "Boat." Now I want to thank all those people—friends and young people—who were there. They welcomed me among them and taught me to swim. And thank you, Mariangela, for giving me the push.
Rita Massi, 2015
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