He smiled at me with such gentleness
Last Sunday morning, I went to the eleven o'clock Mass at the small church of Santa Maria in Trivio, at the little square of the Crucifixes. It's a quiet place—the kind where a handful of people come to hear Mass in silence, and where the priest preaches with both intelligence and humanity.
The Mass had started when I heard loud voices. A group of people had arrived and settled in behind me, and a young man sat down beside me.
Annoyed by the noise and the constant chatter between the boy's mother and him, I asked them to be quiet so I could hear the sermon in peace. Then I noticed several people in the center pews turning around to stare at this group. Their glances were sharp with irritation and impatience. When I turned to look, I realized the boy sitting next to me had Down syndrome. He kept repeating, "Jesus, Jesus," and other words I couldn't make out. Behind his thick glasses, I saw a human gaze—but also something wounded and frightened, like a trapped animal.
A wave of anguish and sorrow washed over me. I regretted my own impatience, so I smiled at him. He smiled back. I noticed that when I knelt, he knelt too—without being prompted by his mother. It was clear he understood everything, and that he had a deep sensitivity. He received Communion near me, and kept watching me. At the end of Mass, I saw his father turn, perhaps hurt by the looks the parishioners gave his son as they left—looks that said he had no right to be part of their world.
I felt sick. Tears ran down my face. I didn't have the courage to speak to him, but I hugged him and kissed him goodbye. He smiled at me with such gentleness.
L.M.
Never losing hope
I've been able to read several issues of your magazine, Ombre e Luci, and I find it truly valuable—both for my work in the schools, where I meet handicapped children and their families, and for the ministry I do with a parish group dedicated to people with disabilities. The articles and testimonies are a constant invitation to share, never to lose hope, and to better understand what I experience.
B.L.
Nothing is taken from us
Dear Friends, first I want to thank you for what I've found in reading Ombre e Luci. I hope many people will come to see how important and meaningful the testimonies in your magazine are—so that you receive enough subscriptions to continue publishing.
I want to single out your last issue, devoted entirely to people with Down syndrome, and express my gratitude to everyone who worked on it.
I'm convinced that information and guidance like yours are deeply valuable and encouraging—both for parents facing this journey and for all of us who live with this reality, even if we're not directly affected.
Let me introduce myself: I'm Paolo's mother. Paolo is twenty years old and has Down syndrome.
I won't hide it—I read that issue with a lot of anxiety, hoping to find some common ground. But I also had this unspoken fear that I might discover something that would upset me.
I was wrong to worry. It helped me tremendously. I found myself retracing the path I began so many years ago—a journey with long stretches and short ones, sometimes difficult and exhausting, but always rich with experience and, in the end, with so much joy.
You might ask: what joy could there possibly be?
There's more than I can name, and of different kinds. But I want to share one of my recent joys: for more than a year now, Paolo has been working at a publishing house. The commitment, the interest, and the dedication he brings to this new work every day are beyond words. His parents support him with understanding, and so do his supervisors and colleagues.
A few years ago, I never would have imagined reaching this milestone. But trust and hope never left me. Now I can say it only took patience.
Paolo, like so many others, has shown us how much he can give—and will continue to give. The presence that seemed to shatter our lives at his birth has become the foundation of our family's peace and the way we live.
So my message is for everyone, but especially for parents who have lost heart or who haven't yet known moments of joy: I want you to believe, as I do now, that nothing is taken from us.
A warm embrace.
Paolo's mother
But I would also like to see
When I saw your first issue, I loved it—it was beautiful, interesting, well done. But I was sad that it replaced the old magazine Insieme, to which I was very attached. I understand the two publications have different approaches, but I do miss the connection to the Fede e Luce communities. In my opinion, the two or three pages you devote to Fede e Luce life aren't enough. They could be richer and more beautiful. I think your approach to the magazine is sound—one main topic per issue. I was very interested in the vacation issue and the recent one on Down syndrome. I think you should keep covering different types of disabilities. I speak as someone who often has to respond to disability with only her heart to guide her, and who would benefit from knowing more.
I'd also like to see articles on activities and practical programs you can do with young people—an exchange of experiences not just from Fede e Luce groups, but more broadly. And stories about community living with people who have disabilities, like Il Chicco: a home for Fabio and Maria.
P.M.