I remember the time well. It was a dreary Dutch winter's day. The rain was falling and the air was damp. It was a dark day, for more reasons than the weather. It was on that very day that Ron and I received news that our beautiful, little four-month-old daughter was developmentally delayed. The news had shattered our lives.

We had so many dreams for her-pink dresses and bows, a university education, a white dress on her wedding day. Those dreams had vanished in the fog of a father and mother's tears. Brokenhearted, I bent over her crib and she looked up at me with her bright, blue eyes. I could hardly contain my grief as I gazed at her and touched her blond curls. "Oh, God," I thought, "what will we do? How will we cope? How will she grow up with so much against her and have a meaningful life?" I was in anguish for her and afraid for myself. How would I be able to mother this child that we had so deeply longed for and yet whose life would be so different than what we had expected.

As the news of our situation spread throughout the village, many in our church community came to us with little gifts and encouraging words. We received so many cards and letters that our mailbox overflowed. It was their way of expressing their support and love. We appreciated that more than I can express. But, still I struggled with the upheaval of my soul. I had not yet gained peace and courage about being the mother of a handicapped child.

Ron and I prayed together because we needed to pray so badly. We read God's Word because we needed His wisdom so desperately. We rushed to Him because that was the only place we knew to run. He was our Father and His arms were open for us.

One morning, in the midst of these struggles, there was an unexpected knock on our door. When I opened the door, a stranger stood before me.

"Good morning, Mrs. Gleason," she said. "My name is Els. My father goes to your church and he wanted you to have this." She handed me a small package tied with a loose ribbon.

"Thank you," I said.

"My father thought you would understand his gift and he very much wanted you to have it," she said. "I hope it will mean as much to you as it does to him." She shook my hand, said goodbye, and left.

A few minutes later, I sat at the kitchen table and slowly opened the paper. Inside was a handmade plaque, just a simple stained board. Burned into the plaque were two words and a small simple cross. The message was brief-"Yes, Father". There was also a letter in an envelope. Here is what it said:

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gleason,

My name is Joseph. I have been suffering for years from diabetes. It has been a very difficult experience but the Lord has used it to keep me close to him. There has been much grief for me. I am in a wheelchair. I have lost both my legs and my fingers are beginning to have problems now, too. I may lose some of my fingers. Each time I must lose a part of myself, I grieve. But God has filled the empty space with Himself and the loss has been less upsetting that way. I have learned to trust Him and each time anew, I learn to say 'Yes, Father.' He has proved Himself worthy of my trust for He has not forsaken me but rather filled me with joy in the midst of my sorrow. I hope these words will help you in your time of trial and grief.

Your Brother in the Lord, Joseph."

God used this simple man to teach me a very complex lesson in life. God is worthy of our trust! He will not forsake us, no matter what is happening in our lives, no matter how great the odds, no matter how deep the suffering, no matter how uncertain the future. Our God is faithful. We may count on Him. He will not fail us!

Today Joseph's plaque sits in a prominent place in our living room. It is a constant reminder of the important lesson he taught me about our heavenly Father and what it means to be His child.

Sarah Gleason — October 2004