I was born blind at Lourdes—though not every miracle people pray for at Lourdes comes the way they expect. My parents were shepherds high in the mountains, and I think that opened my heart to thanksgiving and contemplation. At six years old, I left my family—my parents and four sisters—to attend a school for the blind. I felt far from them. Later I was integrated into a mainstream classroom, and because I loved music deeply, I entered the conservatory at Bordeaux. During those years I grew restless, asking myself hard questions about the meaning of life.
With help from a priest, and then from Faith and Light, I discovered that life is sacred. I learned to live my limitations in truth.
In 1980, at Faith and Light, I met Marie Cathérine—someone who saw the person first, the disability second. We married in 1982. Marie Cathérine knew that sharing daily life with a blind man would not be easy. But if you believe in love, if you believe in the grace of the marriage sacrament, everything becomes possible. On our wedding day, Faith and Light communities came in great numbers. It was a wonderful celebration. Friends gave us a trip to Rome as a gift. On Saint Peter's Square, Pope John Paul II blessed our rings. A deeply moving moment. The Pope told us: "Go forward, do not be afraid." We think of those words often.
We found a home on the edge of Paris. The region frightened me—I worried I couldn't navigate independently. I would have preferred Bordeaux, but I had no work there while Marie Cathérine found a job in Paris. Six months later, I joined an insurance company where I still work today. We have four children: Samuel, David, Etienne, and Rachel—all sighted. There was risk they could have been born blind. I integrated well into Parisian life, thanks in large part to our parish. I am fortunate to sing well. The parish priest noticed immediately and asked me to lead some Masses. I was elected to the pastoral council and in '92 participated in the diocesan synod. In the parish we have many friends—families with children we can count on. We've learned this through various experiences.
Years passed, and Marie Cathérine and I began to wonder: what is our mission? What does the Lord expect of us? How can we proclaim the Gospel as we are and where we are?
In '92, the parish priest and pastoral council asked me to consider the diaconate. It wasn't a surprise—we had already thought it might be the right way for us as a couple to become more deeply involved in parish life. But thinking about something and actually beginning the journey are two different things. We asked friends to hold our decision in prayer. I went to see the bishop and told him of my intention. I needed to know: was blindness an obstacle to the diaconate? If so, I would let it go. The bishop received me with gentleness and care. He listened to my vision for the ministry and encouraged me to keep reflecting on how I could reconcile my disability with the work.
After four years of formation, I was ordained on May 25, 1997. We chose a large church so that Faith and Light communities and many disabled people could attend. My ministry is essentially in the parish and at Faith and Light. A deacon is a sign of Christ the servant and reminds the Church that it must serve the poorest first. Through my ministry, I hope to be a sign that people with disabilities have a full place in the Christian community. They are fully part of the body of Christ. Saint Paul reminds us that the weakest members must be honored. When I stand at the altar, I feel very strongly how important it is to bring to the Lord the sufferings of all people.
Obviously, for weddings and baptisms, I need help with practical tasks: signing registers, preparing the baptismal font, lighting candles, making sure the church is well lit. I like to have young people help me—for them it's a meaningful way to experience the liturgy.
Before ordination, I thought I could never distribute communion, and that sadness cut deeply. Giving the body of Christ seemed like the most beautiful thing we could offer. After reflecting with my formation team, we realized it was possible. I ask people to make a small gesture so their hands reach mine, and I invite them to say their name. It matters to know to whom I give the body of Christ. Even if I often don't catch the name, it helps me to know whether I'm giving communion to a man, a woman, or a child. I am blessed to be supported by Marie Cathérine. I know she holds my ministry in prayer and does everything she can to make my life easier—transcribing things, taking dictation, managing the computer. I believe this is also a deeper way of living the marriage sacrament. I am the one ordained, but it is we as a couple who are truly marked by this ministry. Her "yes" on the day of my ordination was very important to me.
I am happy to be married, to have four children, to be a deacon. The Lord gives me more than I imagined. Sometimes it is hard—finding balance between family life, work, rest, and ministry is not easy. But I know it is the Lord who has called and sent me as a deacon, and it is He who will give me the strength and energy to go forward. My task is to invoke the Holy Spirit in prayer.
Now I give the floor to Marie Cathérine.
When we married, we had a dose of madness in us, unconsciousness, enthusiasm—but also suffering. Twenty-seven years later, we move forward with confidence, with difficulties and joys and a certain suffering tied to blindness. Nothing replaces a glance. It is hard not to exchange looks, always to stumble on his lack of response, always to explain what works and what doesn't. With "a look" André cannot perceive the state of the house, either practically or emotionally. Not to see his children is a suffering for him. He can only see them through others' eyes. For the children, their father's disability is not always easy to live with: not being seen when they are with him, not being able to do things together. Helping with moves, assembling furniture, earning more money. But all these difficulties, these sufferings—so real—have not kept us from laughing, singing, making music, hiking in the Pyrenees (people stared strangely when we reached the Roland peak). We all six went, sent by the parish, to Burkina Faso: a father of four, blind, a deacon, who works, reads Braille. We were practically extraterrestrials!
Our greatest wealth is our friends. Without denying the difficulties, our shortcomings, they move forward with us, they build, pray, laugh, cry, sing, accompany, and share. At the center of our hope and our love is truly "Faith and Light"—which allows us to live, to experience the washing of feet, the cross, and the hope of resurrection.
Marie Cathérine and André Haurine, 2009