Fifty years of Ombres et Lumière. For Christians, a celebration like this has a name: jubilee. The word carries a deep inner joy, one that radiates outward and longs to reach people without hope, people who have lost their way.
When the OCH was founded on October 13, 1963, an idea I had cherished each day became real: a magazine for people with handicaps and their parents. It took root in my heart like a seed. We had no time and no money, but I was gripped by the suffering of these families. Their lives were often unbearably painful, in a society that turned away from them—and the Church did too. Specialized religious education, pioneered in France by Father Bissonier, was just beginning. Few services. Few schools. There were dedicated parents, certainly, who had rolled up their sleeves and started associations. The Unapei, a federation for the rights of handicapped people, was doing substantial work. But each group had its own internal bulletin, focused on the specific handicaps of its members, and all observed strict neutrality. So I reached out to these organizations with a promise: we would not compete with them, but complement their efforts.
Where would the money come from? A Christian publisher's director tried to convince me to abandon the project. "It's destined to fail," he said. This was the sixties. "God is dead." Abortion law was being debated, tormenting consciences. Experts were commissioned to do cost-benefit analyses. Wouldn't it be more efficient to screen systematically for disability in every pregnant woman than to provide care for handicapped children? Eugenics was knocking at the door.
The Holy Spirit as Last Resort
The OCH board gave me their trust and agreed to budget for the magazine, provided enough people committed to subscribing. The team was skeletal: me, still directing the OCH and coordinating Fede e Luce internationally; one part-time secretary; Father Bissonier, squeezing us in when he could. But we had something precious—a core of deeply committed people: parents, educators, priests, specialized catechists.
Choosing a name was urgent. It had to speak to who we were and what we did. It had to give wings—words that would inspire flight, passage toward God's light, like Noah's dove when it emerged from forty days of darkness in the ark. We would move from despair and confusion toward the discovery that the Lord dwells in the deepest darkness. I remember our brainstorming sessions. We went in circles. We hunted for something close to "pedagogy of resurrection"—the title of Father Bissonier's first book—but it was too obscure, too learned for ordinary people. We were stuck. So we turned to the Holy Spirit: "Only you can free us from this deadlock." A moment of silence. Then the name appeared: "Ombres et Lumière." When someone said it aloud, a unanimous cry of joy went up. It was perfect.
What made this venture original—beyond its explicitly Christian character—was its scope. We would speak to people with mental handicaps and, more broadly, to anyone with physical, sensory, or psychiatric disabilities, or social difficulty, at any age, regardless of how severe their condition. And to their families and all those near to them. An enormous field. Parents longed for support in their suffering, so that beyond the pain and appearances, they might discover the beauty of their child. "Father, I thank you that you have hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to infants."
Parents were grateful to find those precious Gospel words and others in their copies of Ombres et Lumière. Many didn't stop at reading. They informed themselves. They got involved. And our donors—those who had simply written a check—took the next step. They wanted to understand what their gifts were doing. They subscribed to the magazine. Some networked with friends.
In these uncertain years, I give thanks for God's tangible presence, for how he uses our deficiencies and weaknesses to accomplish his designs for handicapped people and their families. What joy to see today a team faithful to that original inspiration, treasuring both the new and the old, deeply motivated so that in our dark world, the weakest among us might call us toward the light.
Marie-Hélène Mathieu
translated by Rita Massi (from O&L no. 221)