Dearest Jean, I have wanted to write to you for a long time. You don't know me, though we have met a few times, but I know your story. I have heard you speak at various gatherings, and once I kissed you on the cheek, so please allow me to address you informally. In 1993 I first heard about you, and I took part in a vacation with some disabled young people and some friends from Fede e Luce. I was eighteen.
I want, with this letter, to thank you for your testimony and to share with you how Fede e Luce has transformed my life and continues to offer me insights into living better, even today. I have many memories. So many lived moments have given me something, made me reflect, worked on my heart. I will try to tell you one thing; it matters to me because I hope and believe it will bring you joy, at this point in your life, to know the fruits of your work, your commitment, even if all of it will one day be revealed to you in full.
I have always been part of parish groups. Before joining Fede e Luce, I belonged to a post-confirmation group. One day my catechist said it was time to put the Gospel into practice, and the group dissolved. A friend who was already in Fede e Luce invited me to join, and I decided to come. My intention was to "do good for people more unfortunate than myself." I had a particular fondness for people who were "more difficult." But it wasn't long before I realized how exhausting it was, how demanding, and sometimes—I won't hide it—how tiresome it could be to help disabled young people eat, change their clothes, wipe their mouths, walk alongside them. It had quickly become a real sacrifice, despite the singing and the celebration. I could not look at disabled people as persons I could enter into a real relationship with, from whom I might receive something. From this "activity" I received the satisfaction of having done "a good deed," but something felt off.
Then one day, we were away for a weekend and it was winter, bitterly cold. I was accompanying a girl named Silvia, who had spastic tetraplegia and used a wheelchair. I had just finished dressing her with some effort. She was still lying on the bed and said to me, "I'm cold. I'd like thermal leggings under my pants." I answered, "But I've already dressed you, everyone else is ready for breakfast. I'll put them on you afterward, let's go now." Silvia said sadly again, "But I'm cold…" "Come on, let's go," I cut her off, already putting her in her wheelchair. Later, while we were having breakfast, I saw another girl from the group taking Silvia outside. Curious, I followed them and found them in the bathroom, where the girl was putting socks on Silvia. Offended, I exclaimed, "I told you I would put those on her later!" And Silvia answered simply, "But I'm cold now." In that instant, I understood. I understood that she was asking me to enter into a relationship with her, to truly listen to her. From that moment on, I realized that all people need to enter into an authentic relationship of welcome, of mutual listening, of sharing. My way of being at Fede e Luce slowly began to change.
But something has also changed in my everyday life with others, and it continues to change a little bit more each day. Certainly, selfishness is always lying in wait, but I try to keep it in check because I know it can make me lose the most important sense of why I act at all.
I have read some of your books: Every Person Is a Sacred Story, Community, The Wellspring of Tears, and others. Slowly, on different occasions, I have experienced what it means—the mystery and the sacredness of every person. No matter how disabled they may be, I have been able to see, in certain privileged moments, the transfigured and luminous face of Jesus in them. It is as if the disabled person's eyes could see into a dimension where they behold Jesus face to face and reflect back his beauty and the joy of feeling loved by him. I feel and believe that Jesus speaks to the hearts of disabled young people in a very special way.
I have also learned from my disabled friends and from their parents to scale back my ambitions, my desire for recognition from others, my dreams of professional and personal achievement—things that fed my anxieties and caused me suffering. I discovered from some of them that very little is needed to live in joy. In living alongside them through the everyday events of our lives, I have felt great joy in being loved simply for my willingness to "be present," and in seeing the joy in their eyes at having me near. In some way, it was also beautiful to share their sufferings, their worries, their choices. This has changed me, and I want to say this clearly: it has changed how I am at work, how I relate to people outside Fede e Luce, how I am with my husband, with my parents. For instance, for now I cannot have children, but that is no longer such a grave problem for me.
Karl König said, "It is possible that those with mental disability carry the seed of healing into today's social life." I believe that each person has a place in the world and a mission—in their family, in the society in which they are born and live. We are all part of this mission. I believe it. I believe we are part of this one body that Jesus calls us to form. But this is only possible through Jesus, who gradually, with his Spirit, heals us and teaches us what truly matters, who speaks to us through people like our disabled brothers and sisters, and through people like you, Jean, who have testified to these truths with your lives. To learn to love one another, to give ourselves to each other with simplicity and patience, day by day, as Jesus has told us, knowing that he loves us and that we will live in his love forever—this is what matters most to me.
I apologize if these words seem rambling, but today is Pentecost, and I feel great joy within me and such gratitude. Thank you, Jean, for sharing with us these "secrets" that Jesus has revealed to you so beautifully. Thank you for your words, for your life. I want to say to you: "Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!" Truly, may you be blessed.
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