I'm the mother of four healthy children. I've cared for them with all my heart. Now they're adults, each walking his own path with purpose. But I don't want to stop working, and as best I can, I want to keep building. I feel called to lay one stone after another, wherever the Lord points. That's how I came to the editorial office of Ombre e Luci: it was His proposal, and I accepted with joy. Now I'm grateful—constantly grateful—to everyone who made it possible.
Among my friends and family were several children with handicaps. I loved them, and they loved me. Because of that, and because I knew my own limits, I felt I belonged in their world. I wanted to be there. And now it's clear to me that the world of handicap isn't separate from anything—it's the world we all live in, the world of every human being, so often anxious, so uncertain, so fragile beneath their anger and cruelty. It's our world, plain and simple. Some people need more help. That's precisely why they must be helped.
I tried talking to people doing this work, but I couldn't find my way in.
One day I saw Ombre e Luci at a friend's house and brought home a few copies. I called Mariangela. Now I'm a contributor. If I could, I'd work there day and night. Every project, every address, every reader speaks to me of suffering and courage, of solidarity and communion.
The magazine reaches out: letters go to places near and far, to people known and unknown. Letters, phone calls, visits arrive at our office. It's like a big family. We have so much to be grateful for: contributors full of generosity, subscribers who give far more than we ask and make it possible for us to send the magazine to those who can't pay, Fede e Luce communities that take on the not-always-easy job of gathering subscriber lists and collecting dues. And encouragement, advice. We need all of it, and when it comes, we're deeply grateful. Yet sometimes our work feels like a drop in an ocean of need, of calls, of appeals. Still, we believe every drop has value. We feel united with everyone who walks toward the same hopes. Our work becomes prayer.
Every project, every address, every reader tells me stories of suffering, of courage, of solidarity, of communion.
Every project, every address, every reader tells me stories of suffering, of courage, of solidarity, of communion.
So now, with all my limits, I feel stronger—with a strength that's strange and mysterious.
We're blessed to have two young people with mild handicaps helping us here. They remind us constantly—as Mariangela says—of why we do this work. They help me walk with my limits, just as I help them walk with theirs. They show me how to strive and grow and love with simplicity and truth.
We feel blessed because we're truly brothers and sisters, and because the world's harsh laws no longer apply here. Despite all our limits and failures, we're full of hope.
— N. L., 1993
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