Excerpt from the book “Just do It”.
Fostering three special needs children was never easy. Small and big sacrifices were part of the 24/7 job. Still, it was a fulfilling, God-given ministry with its good and bad days. Two thriving Bedouin girls and a Jewish boy - what more could we want? Another boy, perhaps?
Already for some time Wim and I had been thinking about a fourth child, but each time we thought a door opened, it shut in our faces.
“Lord,” we prayed, “you know our hearts. Please, send us the right child.”
During the first months of 1997 the desire for another child grew more intense. Perhaps this time we should consider adoption, I thought.
Thursday, June 26. “Today I’m going to call the social worker and tell her we want another child,” I told Wim that morning. Before I had a chance to contact the woman, a phone-call changed the course of our lives.
“Do you happen to know a family who would be willing to foster a disabled, three year old, Arab boy?” a social worker from Alyn asked.
“Yes! We would love to!” I exclaimed.
The flabbergasted woman provided more details.
“I’ll call you back soon.” I promised.
Wim wasn’t surprised, for the day before he had been strangely touched when he saw someone wearing a T-Shirt which said “Just-do-it”.
“Just do it, Petra!”
A few hours later, the social worker briefed us about the little boy. “Tests show that his present developmental stage is like a four month old child,” she began. “But everybody believes he has enormous potential.”
There was no need to convince us, we would have taken him anyhow.
Excited, Wim and I followed the social worker to the Maon (Day-care centre for toddlers). Colourful cots lined the wall of the spacious room where I noticed a young Arab woman sitting on a mattress. A few small children were either sitting in special chairs or playing on the vinyl floor. One of them was a tiny, white-haired boy, who passively lay on his side, staring into space.
Before entering the class, the social worker had warned us. “The first time you see Na’il, you’ll be shocked.”
She was right. We experienced a short-lived jolt, but then, as we looked past the empty blue eyes, the strange facial features, and the extremely thin arms with tiny, claw-like hands, we saw a helpless child, in need of tender loving care. Compassion filled our hearts and eyes to overflowing.
The visit was short. In broken Hebrew, the Arab woman who happened to be his mother Sameera, said hello, shook our hands, and took Na’il home with her. We collected our other children from their classes in Alyn and tried to prepare them for a new brother.
Fostering three special needs children was never easy. Small and big sacrifices were part of the 24/7 job. Still, it was a fulfilling, God-given ministry with its good and bad days. Two thriving Bedouin girls and a Jewish boy - what more could we want? Another boy, perhaps?
Already for some time Wim and I had been thinking about a fourth child, but each time we thought a door opened, it shut in our faces.
“Lord,” we prayed, “you know our hearts. Please, send us the right child.”
During the first months of 1997 the desire for another child grew more intense. Perhaps this time we should consider adoption, I thought.
Thursday, June 26. “Today I’m going to call the social worker and tell her we want another child,” I told Wim that morning. Before I had a chance to contact the woman, a phone-call changed the course of our lives.
“Do you happen to know a family who would be willing to foster a disabled, three year old, Arab boy?” a social worker from Alyn asked.
“Yes! We would love to!” I exclaimed.
The flabbergasted woman provided more details.
“I’ll call you back soon.” I promised.
Wim wasn’t surprised, for the day before he had been strangely touched when he saw someone wearing a T-Shirt which said “Just-do-it”.
“Just do it, Petra!”
A few hours later, the social worker briefed us about the little boy. “Tests show that his present developmental stage is like a four month old child,” she began. “But everybody believes he has enormous potential.”
There was no need to convince us, we would have taken him anyhow.
Excited, Wim and I followed the social worker to the Maon (Day-care centre for toddlers). Colourful cots lined the wall of the spacious room where I noticed a young Arab woman sitting on a mattress. A few small children were either sitting in special chairs or playing on the vinyl floor. One of them was a tiny, white-haired boy, who passively lay on his side, staring into space.
Before entering the class, the social worker had warned us. “The first time you see Na’il, you’ll be shocked.”
She was right. We experienced a short-lived jolt, but then, as we looked past the empty blue eyes, the strange facial features, and the extremely thin arms with tiny, claw-like hands, we saw a helpless child, in need of tender loving care. Compassion filled our hearts and eyes to overflowing.
The visit was short. In broken Hebrew, the Arab woman who happened to be his mother Sameera, said hello, shook our hands, and took Na’il home with her. We collected our other children from their classes in Alyn and tried to prepare them for a new brother.