I have a daughter named Yancinthe; she is eight years old and has significant special needs.

Yacinthe, who was adopted from Mexico at the age of two, is a child with a beautiful spirit about her. She was an orphan; nobody wanted her because she had been born without arms or legs, and had been born a dwarf--i.e., a "little person".

Yacinthe came to us when she was two; yet we knew about her when she was only a year and a half. We immediately set out to adopt her once we heard about her plight; we had wanted a little girl to go with our boy, Remi Eliazar, who was four; we wanted him to have a little sister.

When we first saw her picture on the Internet at one of the adoption agencies, we couldn't help but fall in love.

 Yacinthe had round, cherubic cheeks, huge black eyes fringed with long blue-black lashes, a headful of silky, straight blue-black hair, and a dimpled smile. In the picture, little Yacinthe was wearing a red-and-blue checkered jumper over a short sleeved white blouse.

She was absolutely beautiful.

Unfortunately, she was missing her arms and legs. To see her missing limbs broke our hearts; we thought she had lost them in an accident; however, we learned that she had been born this way.

She was also born a dwarf. She would always be no taller than four and a half feet tall, even when she reached adulthood.

We waited a good six months before we found out anything. Then came that happy day, the day where we got The Call, the call that told us that the adoption of the little girl had been approved. We were to become little Yacinthe's new mommy and daddy.

We flew to Mexico to pick up our new daughter. It was a day of celebration and joy. We were estatic; we could not wait to bring our new child home to America--and home to her new brother, who was waiting anxiously for her.

As soon as the child had been placed into our arms, we couldn't hold back the tears. We sobbed with joy, and Yacinthe did the same. She was absolutely terrified at the strangers who were now holding her; she began crying for her caretakers in pidgin Spanish.

We had no clue as to what she was saying; yet her fear spoke volumes.

We tried to comfort the scared little girl, tried to settle her down, but to no avail. She continued to scream as we got into the taxi to take us back to our hotel, continued to scream as we gave her a bath and put a fresh diaper (and clean clothes) upon her thin little body, and tried not to stare at her missing limbs.

It felt strange  holding a little one without any legs dangling down towards the floor or not feeling small arms grasping our necks.

No matter what we did, we couldn't settle her down. We kept getting strange looks from people; I was sure they were going to call for the policia (police), to see what we were doing to this scared child without arms or legs.

It ws terrifying. I was sure we were going to get thrown into a Mexican jail.

Finally came the time to where we could take her to her new home in America. We happily headed towards the airport; yet Yacinthe continued to have crying jags quite frequently.

It was maddening; it was hard on our ears--not to mention, our nerves. More than once we were ready to throw in the towel, exchange Yacinthe for a quieter model.

Little Yacinthe continued to cry for the next few months (seemed like years). We were afraid that she'd never adjust: the new sounds, smells, language terrified her. Yet as we worked with her, and as therapists worked with her, she slowly began to adjust; she became quieter, much more easier to live with.

She turned from a crybaby into an ebullient little ham who strived for attention. Anything she could do to wrap us around her tiny heart, she'd do it. She was a giggler, who laughed constantly; anything and everything would set her off.

The fact that she was missing her arms and legs never stopped her.

If she wanted to get from place to place, she rolled around like a little round ball. She opened things with her teeth, and she fed herself by sticking her face into her food. Not the neatest (or nicest) way to eat, but for her it worked wonders. She was incredible.

She still is. Now six years later, Yacinthe has been in and out of the hospital for various things: asthma (she has terrible allergies), pneumonia (due to her weakened lungs; she's susceptible to any little bug that comes our way; she has to wear oxygen at night and have breathing treatments to help her lungs stay as healthy as possible), stomach virus, intestinal blockages, even a massive kidney infection. It hasn't been easy, but God's somehow brought us through, each and every time.

Each day spent with Yacinthe is like a day full of sunshine, a day with birds singing, breezes blowing gently. She is a little miracle, and she is full of courage, grace, and sheer determination. If she wants something done, she'll do it---her way. She doesn't want our help; she'd much rather take care of it by herself.

We have learned a lot about the impossible becoming the possible through our brave young daughter, who has grown into a beautiful gradeschooler. She is incredibly smart, bordering on the level of being gifted, loves to sing, and wants to be either a singer or actress when she grows up.

Through all of her trials, God has been faithful. Even when things looked their bleakest (such as the time our daughter suffered an anaphylactic shock reaction to shrimp and fell into a coma; this happened last year), He brought her through it, and now she is thriving. It's as if nothing ever happened: she still remains as smart, as outgoing as ever. It's strengthened our faith, and it's made us appreciate the gift that we have in Yacinthe Teresita.