"If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement, and mystery of the world we live in." Rachel Carson, biologist, 1907–1964, USA
Libby is a deaf child in a hearing family. She cannot communicate effectively until a specialist teacher, called in by her mother, begins to interact with her through sign language. Her parents are deeply uncertain about this unfamiliar way of moving hands. Fearing it will pull her away from them and from the "normal" world, they resist and eventually turn back to traditional teaching methods—despite the progress she has made. This is the story told in The Silent Child, which won the Oscar for best short film last February. On the cover is a still from the film: the wonder in the child's eyes as the teacher's hands open to speak to her. That look captures something essential—the astonishment a person feels when, at last, someone truly understands and welcomes them, when they are finally seen and known in real communication.
The ability to tell our own story—to share our struggles and our joys—is one of our deepest needs. The short film, performed with raw power by its actresses (the child is actually deaf; the actress playing the teacher learned sign language after her own father became deaf following chemotherapy), lays bare a hard truth: deafness is an invisible disability. Its weight as a barrier to communication is easily overlooked. When that happens, deaf people have fewer chances at real inclusion and personal growth.
Many families face the question of which communication method works best for their deaf children. We do not mean to oversimplify the difficult choices each family must make. Yet certain stories and experiences can light the way through this hidden world. You can learn more about deafness and sign language—which, for that child, unlocked the ability to speak her heart. You can discover how a Roman parish, situated near a school for the deaf, has built inclusive catechism classes with the generous help of volunteer LIS interpreters (p. 12). You can learn that sign language, like any language, supports and strengthens the brain's plasticity. For this reason, it has for some time been used not only by deaf people but also by hearing people whose disabilities affect their ability to communicate and connect (p. 14).
"I took all the signs for wonders and every wonder for a sign." (Luke Davies, filmmaker and writer, Australia, 1962)
But that photograph speaks to something deeper still: the need to meet another person in true respect for the mystery each one carries. It reminds us how vital it is to learn to see wonders—even the small ones of everyday life—which become beautiful above all because we behold them together. We recognize joy in the faces and gifts that surround us: in Eric, who has trisomy 21, and the wild things he manages to make his parents do (p. 6); in the solidarity duets of the yellow-and-red team (p. 21); in the recent conference on Inclusive Christian Initiation Catechesis in Assisi (p. 18), which calls urgently for a Christian community where every member lives with enthusiasm for the faith, drawing each child toward the Good News. We recognize, too, that this deep joy is mysteriously bound up with suffering—as we stand before the empty tomb on Easter morning. May our "inner self," as Nora describes it (p. 4), open to the Good News of Jesus through a community that is truly fraternal, and may it be renewed completely in the light of joy and wonder. Have a wonderful summer!