The first Saturday I attended a Foi et Lumière gathering, I was terrified: afraid of who I would meet, afraid of how I should behave, convinced that my every gesture would be measured by others with a critical eye.
But it wasn't. I settled in quickly, struck up conversations with everyone there—no difference in age or circumstance. I found a human warmth and sense of life that we've mostly lost in the frantic rush of our so-called normal days.
I learned the difference between pity and love.
Until then I didn't believe a "difficult child" could have real feelings. I was happy to be proved wrong, faced with Gabriella's spontaneity and affection, with Fabrizio's sensitivity. I've come to see that we do far less for these young people than we receive from them—from their joy and their faith in living a life the world calls "useless." They give us so much more than we give them.
Until yesterday, a disabled person was someone I wanted to avoid or, if I met one, to forget. Today it's a person to love like anyone else—maybe more, because they have different gifts than mine, gifts that are no less precious. If I ever tried to abandon that love, I think I'd be stopped short by Noris's little face, lit up by two sad, deep green eyes that seem always to be asking you a question.
You can't forget a face like that. And not forgetting means you have to commit to it, actively, with your whole heart.
— Maria Grazia, 1979