His name is Xavier. He's a fifteen-year-old boy with Down syndrome—and from his photo, utterly charming. He came to Rome in October from his village near the Atlantic, and during our Feast he received a small package I'd prepared. I don't know why, but I'd attached my address to the little wool smile. Just a whim, really. I never imagined he'd actually use it.
But he did. And from that moment, a friendship was born—with Xavier's mother, with Xavier himself (though he could only write back with uncertain handwriting: "Viva Roma"), and with so many others whom Madame Bonnarme speaks of, and about whom I tell her in turn.
Xavier's life, his little brothers and sisters, his village—these are what we write about, along with our Faith and Light gatherings. Christophe, Jean-Paul, Marie Christine: these names have faces now, real and vivid for me. And Rosina, Roberto, Carla, Mirella, and Enrico have become concrete presences in that corner of France for them.
Our celebrations look like theirs. Our snack times like their picnics. Our joy mirrors their joy. Our sadness echoes their tears.
Perhaps as we come to know each other better, all of us—each one—our hearts grow a little deeper. We find a little more room, a little more love for those near us and those far away, for the known and the unknown. So that we might all be a little more bound together, a little more united.
- Maria Grazia, 1976