In crossword puzzles, "born" is often clued as "brought to life"—the start of a journey, long or short. I was born and raised in a small household: my parents, an older sister, and a younger brother. Both my mother and father suffered from a terrible illness that proved incurable. My father fell sick during military service; as a war invalid, he was allowed to remain with his family—we had moved to a mountain village—until his death. A family marked by tuberculosis, living among healthy people, endures countless humiliations. Fear of contagion makes you unwanted. This intimacy with illness, this nearness to death, the gnawing dread of family separation—these shaped me far too young. But they also planted the seed of faith that would define my life.
Thirty years ago, at the midpoint of my life, I sensed God's call in my family's story. Our daughter's epilepsy had brought us terrible suffering. It was then I understood something crucial: I had gifts to offer, yes, but far more, I had everything to receive and learn from people who are fragile, who are different.
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Then one day—one singular, luminous day—I discovered Faith and Light. This special gift of Jesus to people wounded in their hearts, to their parents, to their friends. I rediscovered joy. I found celebration again.
Moving into different roles within Faith and Light became a grace beyond measure. I had the privilege of learning from its founders, of being enlightened by them, of sharing in their vision and fire.
Faith and Light opened paths I never imagined—paths of growth, of abundance in love. You don't build a career at Faith and Light, you don't climb hierarchies. Instead, you become an ambassador, a voice for what you've been given, so you can scatter that gift to the four winds.
Today I continue my journey in a different season, one suited to this stage of my life.
Years ago, working as an occupational therapist in a geriatric ward, I saw the crushing weight of suffering borne by people facing death entirely alone. There were no palliative care programs then, no hospice. The sorrow of that emptiness settled into my heart and stirred a small group of us to seek training, to organize ourselves, to become both available and competent enough to answer that need.
Now, often at night, in silence, in the stillness of a hospital room, I keep vigil with the dying. I hold in my hand the hand of someone letting go, returning to the Father.
Lord Jesus, make our families of Faith and Light a living spring, not a refuge. Grant us the courage to witness in this pluralist world, so that it might discover you.
