I love the story of a 2nd Century saint named Lawrence. When asked by Roman authorities to hand over the wealth of the church, he brought forth not gold and silver, but people who were blind, deaf, paralyzed and developmentally disabled.

"Here," Lawrence said. "Here is the wealth of the church."

Recently, a group of fifth- and sixth-graders from Our Lady of the Rosary School traveled to the Columbus Statehouse to speak out against budget cuts for county boards of mental retardation. They brought with them not influential lawyers, but their new friend, Leon Moss, a 62-year-old man with mental retardation.

"Here," these youngsters said. "Here is the wealth of our community."

I think the Romans were just a mite surprised when Lawrence showed up with his ragtag crew instead of bags of gold and jewel-studded chalices. I'm sure these passionate students, accompanied by their friend Leon, similarly took the House Finance Committee by surprise.

21st century America is not all that different from 2nd century Rome. Both are cultures where wealth is measured in terms of money, power, possessions and prestige.

Matthew Heaton, a sixth-grader, uncovered a sad truth when he said, "People say Leon can't talk, but listen to him, he can. No one ever took the time to get to know him."

You're right, Matthew. Many of us are so wrapped up in pursuing healthy portfolios, high-powered jobs, sprawling homes, and designer bodies that we are blind to anything but the prioritized lists that rule our lives.

Twenty years ago, before disability entered our family through the birth of our son Joel, making a comfortable home for my family was my top priority. At most, people with mental retardation were unsettling blips on the radar screen of my consciousness.

Until Thanksgiving 1984, when my sister-in-law brought two guests to dinner. One had autism, the other Down syndrome.

To my amazement, James and Paul brought new energy and zest to our gathering. There were no masks and no pretensions. These men were simply and delightfully themselves; happy to be invited, thrilled with the food (I think Paul would have eaten two pumpkin pies if we'd let him), unafraid to ask for what they wanted ("You got a dollar?"). In short, they were open and vulnerable and fully human. James and Paul have shared many holidays with us over the years, and our hearts are richer today because of their friendship.

On a recent family vacation, our son Joel's behavior was more than a little irritating, and we couldn't wait to get home where extra support waited. Sarah, an old friend, met us at the door so that my husband and I could have some alone time. She took Joel to visit her mom, who had cancer. Later that night Sarah told us that Joel's visit had been the highlight of her mom's week; that his antics had made her laugh and forget the pain for one evening. He'd made a deposit in her heart's bank account from which she could draw over the days to come.

Leon, James, Paul, Joel. Here is the wealth of our community.

As Colleen Krajewski, an OLR student said, "What we get back from Leon is 100 times greater than we could ever give."

Right on, Colleen.

The Scriptures say that "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." A group of fifth- and sixth-graders in Greenhills have found a buried treasure. May the riches they've discovered be multiplied in hearts and homes across Cincinnati.

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Kathleen Deyer Bolduc, Greenhills, is the author of 'His Name is Joel: Searching for God in a Son's Disability.' Bolduc is a member of the Enquirer's Local Voices panel, which contributes columns to the opinion paged twice a week.