To better understand Francesca's "extraordinary revelation," we asked her parish priest to describe how Facilitated Communication helped him and Francesca prepare for her First Communion.
"Now I have become a wise Christian did you know dear that I made the first certainly my own choice I wanted this first communion so much and it seemed like an impossible thing."
Francesca typed these words in April of this year on the home computer keyboard, speaking to the therapist helping her refine her technique in facilitated communication. Francesca's mother brought the printed page to the parish, and I read the dialogue between therapist and Francesca. Kristel keeps every page that testifies to Francesca's desire to communicate. The page before my eyes concerns facilitated communication itself. Francesca calls it "a very strange system for writing but I would say it is undoubtedly fascinating"; the therapist tells her about a girl with autism who wants to write a book about her illness. Suddenly the therapist asks: "Is there something else you'd like to tell me?" For the first time, Francesca answers with the words above—about her First Communion.
Read the Dossier: Catechesis and Disability
We had decided in October 1997 to begin preparing Francesca to receive the Eucharist. We had talked about it many times the year before, with the family. But as sometimes happens with important decisions, we had put it off, without any clear reason. In October we committed ourselves. We agreed to meet weekly in the early afternoon, when the parish was quieter and calmer—before the crowds of children arrived for after-school programs.
We met in the rectory, Francesca and her mother Kristel on one side of the table, I on the other. We began with passages from the Gospel: the multiplication of the loaves, the parable of the father and his two sons, the washing of the feet, the Last Supper, and finally Jesus' appearance by the Sea of Tiberias at the end of John's Gospel. Sometimes we read together. Often Kristel would mark the verses, and we would read them again as a group, many times over at home. A few days before each meeting, Kristel would call and tell me the questions Francesca had written on her Communicator device, so I could answer them when we gathered.
Francesca has always communicated through her smile. It expresses her joy at being able to sit and speak of faith. At times she fixes you with her gaze. Sometimes her body shows tension—especially when the questions touch on peace, how to find it, security for tomorrow, God's fatherhood. Sometimes she wants to ask questions; she turns on her Communicator and types her thought with her index finger while Kristel holds her wrist. Other times there is no such desire, and it is enough to answer the questions she had prepared at home.
"I want so much to know. I want to know Jesus," she said at the beginning of our work together. Then came her questions: "How can I be calm and sure about food?"—this after we read the multiplication of the loaves in Mark 6:30-44. "How does Jesus know which fish are on the right side of the boat? The certainty amazes me"—after the miraculous catch of fish.
After reading the Gospel passages, we turned our attention in the following month to the Mass itself. We read parts of it together and talked about them, trying to understand better: the consecration, the Lamb of God, Communion. Francesca wanted to know why Jesus is called the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, and why we always say "I am not worthy of you."
"I want to know how Jesus can be present at Mass and be with us." "Why do we have to say the Creed if God is always with us?" "Why do we have to wait for your coming if you are with us?" Slowly, the great mystery of Jesus' resurrection in this world—still waiting, in the pangs of childbirth, for its fulfillment—began to unfold.
We often helped each other understand what it means to make an "offering to God" and "sacrifice," setting aside the idea of a price paid and grasping it instead as a gift.
We chose the day for Communion: April 19, the Sunday after Easter, which the Church calls Dominica in Albis—the Sunday of white garments, when the baptized still wear the white vestment that bears the light of the Resurrection. It is a Sunday always connected to the sacraments. We decided not to celebrate a separate Mass just for friends. Instead, we would celebrate as we always do, the whole community together: the meeting often began with the 11:30 Mass or ended with the 7 p.m. Mass, when young people and adults gathered. Francesca's First Communion would be a simple celebration of the parish community.
The day after, Francesca wrote a letter to everyone: "I am happy that so many friends came to be with me I thank you all a hug Francesca" and she added, reflecting: "Surprise at so many people I did not know took part in the Mass. I remain very surprised that so many people are surprised when they hear my writings - I think so much but few are able to listen there is no time." Now our journey continues. There was also the unexpected yet deeply desired First Communion of Marco, another autistic young man. Francesca writes that "God is a light that guides us, helps us in the decisions we must make," in the struggle to "help us understand and see the way more clearly." "I want to know how to tell if it is his answer?"
- Fr. Andrea Lonardo, 1998