My son is 7 years old. Since birth, he has been confined to a wheelchair. The doctors said it plainly and without mercy:

“He will never be able to walk.”

But his condition never broke him. If anything, it made him stronger.

He’s growing into a remarkably bright, curious boy who devours books and asks endless questions about everything.
And he has one dream — one that seems impossible.
He dreams of becoming a runner.

He knows his diagnosis makes that dream nearly unreachable. But no one can take away the right to hope.
So he dreams, he believes, and he never stops smiling.

Sometimes I find myself thinking, “I want to be like my son — as hopeful, as strong, and as full of love for life.”

Then, one ordinary day, something happened — something I barely noticed at first.
We were passing by an old church when my son suddenly said,

“Dad, wait.”

I stopped pushing the wheelchair. He was staring at a large statue of an angel in the yard.
Then, without a word, he clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

His voice trembled, but his words were pure and full of faith:

“I want to walk. Please give me strength. I won’t do anything bad and I’ll always be good.”

My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say — I just stood beside him, silently watching.
When he finished, he looked up at me, smiled, and said softly,

“Let’s go, Dad.”

I thought it was just a child’s innocent moment of faith. I forgot about it soon after.
But my son — he didn’t forget.

Months later, something happened that left us absolutely stunned 😲👇👇

We went for a routine check-up. Everything seemed normal — the same questions, the same exams.
But suddenly, the doctor frowned and looked at my son closely.

“Wait… you said when you spilled tea on your legs, you felt pain?”

“Yes,” my son replied, puzzled. “Why?”

The doctor paused, then said words that made my heart stop:

“If he felt pain, that means sensation has returned to his legs. That’s a huge sign. It means there’s still hope.”

For years, we were told his condition was irreversible — hopeless.
And yet, in that moment, hope returned.

The doctor explained that a complex, costly surgery could give him a real chance to walk again — though it would require long rehabilitation.
We are now raising money for the operation. Friends, neighbors, even strangers who heard our story are helping.

And you know what? I no longer doubt.
My son will stand.
He will run.

Because faith, hope, and love — together — are stronger than any diagnosis.