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That's why you have a cold all the time, Cynthia," my secretary, Catherine Geno, teased me as I walked around my home office barefoot. "You really should wear shoes!"

I laughed. Once again, Catherine had straightened me out in her usual loving way. Keeping me straight on all the details of my calendar/notecard business, Band of Angels Press, is Catherine's job; I'm the idea person, she's the organizational whiz. We teamed up three years ago to watch God work and bless. And he has, in both of our lives. Each year, the business grows. As for Catherine, at the end of the summer, she and her new Leader dog will be joining her husband-to-be, Paul Mimms, and his Leader dog, a Labrador Retriever named Crawford, in Kansas City.

The fact is, Catherine's blind. But that hasn't stopped her from demonstrating that her assets far exceed her liabilities.

For five years, I ran an employment agency to secure jobs in large corporations for differently-abled adults. I had worked in telecommunications before starting my own business and had established a relationship with many of these companies. Now came the hard part— dispelling the myth that my clients wouldn't be able to perform their jobs as well as able-bodied persons.

My clients knew they could do the jobs they were applying for; how they accomplished their tasks was the main difference. Together, we anticipated all the questions and were ready with answers—about technology, specific needs, costs involved.

From 1991 to 1995, thirty-two people with various physical challenges—blindness, cerebral palsy, hearing loss, and developmental differences—became thirty-two success stories. It was time-consuming but rewarding work—my thank-you to parents of differently-abled children, especially those with Down syndrome, who had fought long and hard for acceptance and inclusion in the public schools. It made life easier for a parent like myself, who at first resisted my calling.

Eight years ago, in a New York hospital, I waited anxiously for the moment I could hold my new son, Jordan. Our family—my husband, Bill, thirteen-month-old Harper, eight-year-old Kevin, and I—had moved from Washington, D.C., four months earlier. It wasn't enough time to build a close relationship with one obstetrician; I saw different doctors from the same practice during my last months of pregnancy.

Every time I went in for an appointment, they asked if I wanted genetic tests performed. I always politely refused. After all, I was only 34. The chances of having an "imperfect" baby seemed remote to me.

"Besides," I told the doctors, "if God's going to give me a baby, I want the one he's giving me."

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