So Many Friends
My name is Giancarla, and I'm the mother of Andrea, a deaf-blind man of 42 years old.
I wanted to remember a dear friend, Don Francesco Marchini, who passed away years ago. He founded Fede e Luce in Parma with our friend Lucetta (who also recently passed, ed. note). We met in the 1980s when Andrea made his First Communion.
The help they gave us over the years was immense—through Fede e Luce meetings and the wonderful country gatherings at my home. In the photo are Andrea, Don Francesco, and Michela, a friend from the rehabilitation center Andrea attended back then (Cooperativa Insieme in Parma). I want to greet all the friends we met through Fede e Luce. I especially want to embrace our friends in Rome, Assunta and Maria Pescosolido, whom we met at a Fede e Luce gathering.
Giancarla, Emilio, Sabrina, and Andrea Ferrari
Come and See for Yourself!
My name is Arianna, I'm a disabled girl of twenty, and I'm part of a Fede e Luce group in Milan (Fatima). I learned about this group twelve years ago. At that time, I was preparing for my First Communion with my schoolmates, but my catechism class conflicted with my therapy sessions. My mother, talking with the mother of a boy with Down syndrome who went to school with me, heard about the possibility of doing catechism with the Fede e Luce friends. My parents and I discussed it, and we said yes. Some people might wonder if I missed doing it with my school friends. The answer is absolutely not!
I felt at ease, eager even. They welcomed me with real warmth, and it didn't feel like a lesson at all.
When catechism ended and I'd made my First Communion, a girl from the community came up to me and said: "Arianna! I hope to see you again soon with us and your family." I'd felt so welcome from the start that I didn't want it to end there. So we kept coming to the community meetings. Every time my parents and I go to Fede e Luce, we feel drawn deeper into this climate of celebration, love, sharing, acceptance, and respect.
What brings us together? Well, certainly our faith in God, but also the desire to be together and have fun. As the years pass, we know more and more friends, and we develop deep bonds.
For some years now, my community has entrusted me with an important role: preparing prayers and reflections based on the schedule. It's a responsibility I take on gladly, with my mother's help. I'm part of the community team, where I help organize meetings. All of this makes me feel more and more involved, and I live this experience with pride because I can help others. I want everyone who doesn't yet know how beautiful it is to be in Fede e Luce to come and see for themselves—to feel directly the joy we share with each other, not just during meetings but in a simple phone call too.
I want to thank all our Fede e Luce friends for their constant presence beside us.
Arianna Giuliano
You Never Stopped Calling Me
Before you, Man of Sorrows, I remain always speechless.
I have to lean on a few images, carved deep in my heart.
I remember meeting you, Alessandro, as we set out for a Fede e Luce retreat with so many others—how your mother and your aunt had prepared you, and how unprepared I was.
I remember how I felt facing your silence, your basic needs expressed in a whisper, your resignation before my incompetence.
I remember how you then turned these struggles into a song—so unexpected, so incredible—that you sang for me one night. A joyful song, spirited, that made us brothers.
I think of you, Gerri. The pain I felt at my helplessness to give you peace. You tested me constantly; I couldn't enter your endless worry and agitation. Then one morning, exhausted, your smile warmed my soul.
I think of you, Maurizio. How I'd load you up with laxative jam, because that was Liliana's main worry—your mother—when she'd let you go off with your somewhat irresponsible friends. But in your silence, in that little satisfied smile when you'd let the warm sun caress you, you showed me you understood far more than your mother did.
I think of you, Corrado. In your world, you welcomed me by calling me "Uncle Stefo," making me the most important man on earth.
I think of you, Pippi. My clumsiness holding you in my arms—me so big and you so fragile. I lived that unease, and then your face would light up at the whisper of a song you loved.
I think of all my friends with whom I have shared and continue to share this journey. I think of Don Lino and his living Gospel. I think of the gift of compassion we live in Fede e Luce—made of sharing, joy, and love. I think of the small men and women called to be coordinators of our communities and witnesses to this proclamation.
It's true, Man of Sorrows, that through these stories, these faces without appearance or beauty, you have never stopped calling me.
You force me into the painful, constant confrontation with my stony heart, my weaknesses and failures.
Yet it is your smile, your free and boundless love—the love of Alessandro, Gerri, Maurizio, Corrado, and Pippi—that makes me a little better. A humble man walking your road.
Reflection offered during a procession through the streets of Naples. Conference held by the Community of Sant'Egidio, June 2012.