Faith and Light has been part of my life since 1982. It seemed natural to bring my three children (ages 14, 12, and 6), though I couldn't quite explain why at the time. I didn't know where else to leave them—my husband and relatives made disapproving faces, and on principle I couldn't ask them to babysit. It seemed right to share with my children these peaceful, joyful moments of community life. Perhaps that's what some of my relatives couldn't understand. The girls soon grasped, in their own way, that the friends we met at Faith and Light—parents and young people alike—were truly special, far more genuine than the friends outside.
Without any particular fear or hesitation around the more seriously disabled or sometimes aggressive young people, as my daughters grew older they asked me why some people couldn't walk, couldn't see, didn't speak clearly. I gave them the truth: they had suffered a serious illness when they were very small, and that was that.
Yet they were struck by my explanation of the word "disabled" and the different degrees of handicap among the people in our community. When they started school, their teachers were surprised at how naturally and easily they related to classmates who were in any way "different." And when they pass someone with a disability on the street, their gaze does no harm.
As Irene and Laura grew older, their other commitments increased and they don't come to gatherings as regularly. But whenever they attend a meeting, a camp—or especially a pilgrimage to Lourdes—they come with real enthusiasm. Faith and Light, they say, has a different air about it. It's an experience that makes you grow, that teaches you how to face life.
— F. Romana Paleggi, 2003
