I'm a parent; I want to talk about myself and my relationship with Paola. For others, it will surely be completely different, given the individual characteristics that distinguish each of us. My voice is not law, nor rule.
I married at twenty-one, in 1950. My first daughter, Silvia, was born in '51, and my second, Rita, in '54. We were a serene, typical family—in our neighborhood and parish, one of the best families around. The habit of putting labels on people has always existed.
Paola was born in 1959. The delivery came at eight months, with the baby breech. It felt altogether different from the earlier births. As I left the clinic, I was told these simple words: "You know, having to pull out the head, having had to pull it out, certainly caused the baby girl suffering. She won't be like the other two."
In my ignorance, I didn't give it much thought and went home. But I was sad—everyone told me so. Even Silvia, only eight, said: "Mama, you're not as happy with this little sister as you were when Rita was born." I tried to pull myself together. Paola didn't nurse well; there were many sleepless nights. But I hoped everything would sort itself out in time, always following the advice of the same pediatrician. Her first years passed, and I gradually realized that the way she expressed herself, communicated, joined in games, began to draw or write—it wasn't like other children her age. That's when the parade of specialists began. They diagnosed her as a child with "cerebral palsy and intellectual disability."
My reaction was one of the worst, even though I was part of the so-called "good family." I felt deeply guilty about it all. I kept asking myself "Why me? Why her?" And I desperately set about finding every possible way to make her like the others. Life became truly hard. I rejected reality, and that rejection likely hurt Paola. I won't recount everything I got wrong—I call it wrong now, though I thought it right then. I'll only say this: the comments from friends and relatives weren't kind. Yet despite it all, I felt a strong desire to have another child. In '67, Anna was born.
She won't be like the other two. We want to offer you our friendship.... And we entered Fede e Luce. After that, everything in me began to change. I realized the paths I'd been walking were truly wrong. I understood that I had to go inside myself, know myself, reconsider everything about myself as a woman, a wife, a mother. I broke out of my walls completely. I searched many roads, different ones, at every level.
Then I arrived at the greatest conquest of my life. I arrived too late, but this is what happened: I took firm hold of the truth that children are not ours. They are people unto themselves, completely separate from us. We are simply called to learn to love each of them for who they are, without any projects for them.
So it made no sense to feel pride and pleasure in those so-called normal daughters, beautiful and intelligent, any more than it made sense to feel uneasy in the world because of the daughter who didn't have these gifts. This conquest turned my whole life upside down. I understood that each daughter—Paola included—was only asking me to see her, listen to her, and guide her to discover her real capacities, her desires, her needs. And based on those, she could learn to express herself, to live, to enjoy what is good and beautiful. The pity was that Paola was already twelve. But I didn't lose heart. I met many difficulties. Yet I wanted to try every new path. I realized it wasn't I who was suffering, but she—the true embodiment of innocent suffering.
My relationships with her and all my daughters changed. There was real respect and real love for each of them. Paola's life remained difficult, of course. To her intellectual disability were added serious problems with relating to others—which she desperately wanted but couldn't manage. From this came her sadness and aggression; aggression limited to words and verbal violence, but disturbing to everyone nonetheless. And it was here, in this struggle, that I finally encountered Fede e Luce.
It was January 1988. Paola was twenty-eight and a half. Susanna and Paolo, two young friends, came to my home and brought a truly clear message. After briefly telling us what they did in the Saint Anna community, they said: "We're not experts. We don't think we can solve all your problems. We simply want to offer you our friendship, even if we don't always manage it."
To offer friendship may be the greatest and most beautiful thing you can do
To offer friendship may be the greatest and most beautiful thing you can doI answered: "Does that seem like little? To offer friendship—that may be the greatest and most beautiful thing you can do. It's exactly what our young people have always lacked."
Then, almost in disbelief, I asked two or three times whether parents could really take part too. They insisted that was exactly what they wanted. I, now accustomed to taking people very seriously, believed firmly in this message. And we entered Fede e Luce.
Nearly three years have passed, and I can tell anyone that the message was true. In Fede e Luce, the friend—with all the work that word demands—walks and struggles to be truly a friend. The admiration, the respect, the affection, the shared search for what we wanted to live together—it all moved me deeply. The celebrations, the games, the pizza nights, the meals, the little gatherings; the summer vacations, the moments of real prayer, the phone calls, the conversations—all of it involved me so completely that the peace and joy I draw from it have become part of me. I carry it with me into my everyday life, and the way of Fede e Luce has become my way of living. I don't think it's an endpoint; nothing in me should remain static, I hope. But with everyone in Fede e Luce, I know I can truly walk forward.
As for what it has meant for Paola—I can hardly say. She finally experienced what friendship is. She faced every barrier she could throw up; she still does, and will. But let me give just one example: On June 1st, 1988, her birthday, she hung up on everyone who called to wish her happy birthday, screaming as loud as she could. On June 1st, 1990, she repeatedly announced in advance that it was her birthday and wanted all the friends, the young people and their parents from Fede e Luce in Saint Anna at our house that evening. She ran the whole thing herself. Our home is small, yet we all fit and we fit well. I think for the friends it was a great victory: the message they brought was true. It's the greatest and most beautiful message you can give. It's the only one that can give meaning and value to every life. It's a message that says: "I am here, and the others want me."
In Fede e Luce, the friend—with all the work that word demands—walks and struggles to be truly a friend.
In Fede e Luce, the friend—with all the work that word demands—walks and struggles to be truly a friend.I want to cry out to all parents that our pain, and even more, our child's pain, will remain forever. But perhaps there are different ways to live it. Fede e Luce offers us one of those ways. The only means we have to know it and live it is to believe what Fede e Luce tells us—to believe firmly in that word "friend," which perhaps is overused today. When Fede e Luce says it, it's true. But we can discover it and enjoy it only if, with great effort, we manage to leave behind what's holding us back. We manage to step out of our homes, where perhaps not everything we do is helpful or necessary. We manage to go to the celebrations, the pizza nights, the little gatherings, the planning meetings, the events of all kinds that Fede e Luce offers. We manage, with effort, to take joy in the smallest things—perhaps a single word or a single gesture. We manage, in short, to put ourselves on equal footing with the young people, the younger friends, with anyone we meet. If we have patience and perseverance, a marvelous transformation will happen in us.
To the young people I want to say just one thing: what you do, despite disappointments, amid bitterness and discouragement, what you do is something "great"—too great to be put into words. Don't give up building your lives, making your own choices. But with peace—so much peace—become more and more yourselves. Our children need you. We parents need you. My presence, my participation, my cooperation, my affection, within the limits of what I'm able to give, will never fail you.
- Laura Delay, 1991