The church was half-empty that sultry Sunday at the end of August: mostly middle-aged women fanning themselves, a few children dragged along by their grandparents, only a handful of very young couples in love.
The organist was elderly too, and the choir director, and the man collecting the offering. Going to Mass sometimes felt like such a chore — sitting among strangers, alone in a sea of unfamiliar faces, and with that heat I couldn't concentrate. Then the priest emerged, flanked by two deacons, all three in brilliant white and emerald green, elegant and blessedly cool-looking. My compliments, in weather like that. Behind them came two thirteen-year-old altar servers, lean and dark-haired, wearing long white cassocks with high collars and wide sleeves, hands clasped, hair neatly combed. A miracle: two perfect young acolytes, like little friars before taking orders.
I kept watching. Besides, I'd forgotten my glasses, so I had no choice but to listen to the readings and follow the ritual with my eyes. Those two servers especially captivated me. They sat composed beside the clergy during the readings, at the deacon's sides during the Gospel proclamation, then back at the altar's edge while the pastor gave his homily. I don't mean to say they were statues: sure, they scratched their noses now and then, elbowed each other, tousled their hair — but only for a second. Then they were perfect again.
As the minutes passed, something different caught my attention. One of the two servers moved his hands with sudden force in a way I recognized, then turned his head with an abrupt jerk. He stretched and folded his arms without any clear purpose. That's when I noticed his fixed, intent gaze on the other server — and saw that his gestures followed his companion's a fraction of a second later. Then I caught his brilliant smile as he handed the paten to the priest, the eager concentration with which he shook the bell at the Consecration, right on cue with his partner. And I had no more doubt. Yes, even though I didn't know him personally, he was surely one of our young friends — a "Fedelucino," as they say in Rome — a boy with an intellectual disability who was giving me a magnificent lesson in how to participate in Mass with your whole soul, even on a sultry August Sunday.
Pennablù, 2008