All of us have seen, in these days after Easter, the paschal candle in our churches—a symbol of the light that the Lord, through his word, his life, his death for us, brought into a world wrapped in darkness.
On Holy Saturday night, we lit our small candles and repeated together in the darkened church:
You, O Lord, are the true light that illuminates our night, the life of every day...
Yet for each of us, every day brings a little light (when things go well) and a little shadow (when they do not). Sometimes everything becomes so dark that it seems the light has vanished altogether.
"Where are you, Lord? Where have you gone? I am alone, I cannot bear this anymore... I am tired, everything seems ugly to me, I see no way out."
This happens to children and adults alike, for reasons grave and less grave: worries, concerns, the future, the present, work, love, friends, illness, exhaustion, pain...
Darkness falls. The light is gone.
And then there are those who must live each day with a struggle that sometimes feels greater than they are: to follow, to help, to dress, to wash a child or young person in difficulty. Sometimes it is easy; love prevails, all is well, one has strength, the child is docile. Sometimes it is hard, painful, draining—one cannot go on...
Yet it is precisely in their presence that we must rediscover the light.
Together, let us make an effort. Let us embrace them all in thought, affection, love... all our young people: Nicola, Alberto, Diego, Luciana, Marina, Carla... and so many, many others... yes, they are difficult; yes, they are different; yes, at times utterly exhausting—but they are all capable of offering to parents, teachers, siblings, friends, a message of love and simplicity that we cannot give to others as they can. The lights of their lives, so hard for us to understand, are far stronger and brighter than those of so many "normal" young people. We must discover them, hold them a little higher, and find the courage to let them shine more visibly.
In this poor world that—strangely and painfully—has such need of their light, made of simplicity, of gentle smiles, of generosity, of kindness, of silence...
A light that is far more like the light of the paschal candle than ours ever is.
The Editorial Board, 1975
... I felt myself drawing near to that small, voiceless bed as to an altar, to a sacred place where God spoke through a sign.
A sorrow that bit deep within, yet light and transfigured.
Mystery. And it can only be one of goodness—we must have the courage to say it; a grace, a grace too heavy to bear.* A living host among us, silent as the host, shining as that light.
From a letter by E. Mounier, 1940 (writer, journalist, founder and editor of the journal Esprit.)
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