Loïc is the last surviving member of the Proffit family. He is sixty-five now, and he lives at L'Arche in Trosly. His parents, Camille and Gérard, were farmers in the Somme, in northern France. They married in 1955 and dreamed of a large family. First Loïc was born, then Thaddée—both unable to walk or speak, both requiring constant care, entirely dependent on others. Thaddée faced even greater challenges than his brother, and when their mother could no longer manage his care alone, she had to place him in an institution in Lozère. Every month, Camille made two nights by train to visit him and spend a full day at his side. Loïc stayed at home. Even his parents could not tell what he felt, what stirred inside him when his gaze turned often toward the sky. Music was the only language they shared. Their father, Gérard, understood this. He would hold Loïc and dance with him, cradling him in his arms.
What did Loïc and Thaddée sense when they were turned away from the diocesan pilgrimage? They must have felt their mother and father's deep sorrow. They would not have understood the words, but the grief in their faces and gestures spoke clearly. And what of the refusal to let them eat with the other hotel guests?
I believe that from birth, through the daily gestures of love they knew, Loïc and Thaddée grasped what L'Arche would later articulate: "Meals are the heart and center of community life. To eat at the same table as the excluded is a Gospel beatitude." Here was a beatitude denied. A hard no that carved a wound deep in the hearts of two parents ready to move mountains for solace at the grotto of Lourdes. A no that made them feel cast out by the Church itself. What followed is now part of history: this shaken couple met others, and they longed for a pilgrimage where children with disabilities would be protagonists, alongside their families.
Camille threw herself into the work with total conviction, becoming national coordinator of Faith and Light for France ahead of the 1971 gathering. Gérard did not live to see twelve thousand people singing "Friends, let us sing our joy—God is risen. Alleluia!" A heart attack took him on June 18, 1970. Alone, Camille did not break. She continued for her sons and for the children of thousands of other parents. Faith and Light grew because of families like theirs. Because of mothers and fathers who would not surrender to those who shut them out, because of friends who stood beside them, and because of people living with fragility who felt truly welcomed and loved.
Camille and Thaddée are gone now. Loïc has lived at L'Arche since 1978; when he arrived, the foyer La Forestière was opened in his honor. For the movement's fiftieth anniversary, Faith and Light's international council asked him to give a video testimony. He does not speak, but he makes himself understood. With help from an L'Arche assistant, he told his story.
"Show us how you are today, how you live," they asked him at the start. Loïc rose to it because he cares deeply about Faith and Light. He loves music, and every assistant who has lived with him has introduced him to something new. He loves anyone who sits near him and sings—especially the Marian hymns that bring him peace. The Ave Maria is his favorite.
He also loves to be held and cherished. His assistant tells how much he enjoys a warm bath, plenty of bubbles. What emerges is the most important thing about him—and the very heart of Faith and Light: Loïc loves to be in relationship with other people. Yes, he has his dark moments, when he needs to be left alone. But he is faithful to those he loves. He remembers who has lived with him for a time at L'Arche and seeks them out. He knows Marie-Hélène, who holds him with such tenderness. And to every friend he offers a blessing: a simple gesture of his arm, drawing close the people he cherishes most. This is what we need—his blessing, the blessing of the one at the center of our journey.
Camille and Gérard, with Loïc and Thaddée, dreamed of a world where no one is cast aside. Pope Francis, in his audience last October 2nd, reminded us that "even today, in the Church and in the world, there are many who in their smallness and fragility are forgotten and excluded." Perhaps Loïc, surrounded by such love his whole life, does not grasp all of this with full awareness. But he knows that joy comes when you are fully accepted. And if, as the Pope has said, "every person, even and especially the smallest and most fragile, is loved by God and has a place in the Church and in the world," then the blessing that flows from this sixty-five-year-old man, translated into words, would be: "Be blessed, you who wish to surround me with love. May the Gospel of littleness set you free and make you as happy as being loved has made me."