For the first decade of our marriage, my wife, Doris, and I hoped passionately for a child. I think we wanted a child more than we wanted anything else in the world. So we hoped and prayed for ten long years. And then finally, after ten years, Doris became pregnant. We thanked God and drank a toast to hope.

One night, about six months into the pregnancy, something went wrong, and I called the doctor. He told me Doris was going into labor and to get her into the car and take her to the emergency room right away.

"I'll meet you there," he said. "Oh, yes; I have one more thing to tell you; I should have told you before. Your baby is going to be seriously malformed."

"Malformed? Seriously? How serious?"

"Very serious. It's up to you now to tell Doris on the way to the hospital."

Well, I told her. But we decided that we were not going to give up hope. No matter what the doctor said, we were not going to give up hope. So we kept on hoping all through the night.

At six o'clock in the morning, the doctor came to me with a somewhat embarrassed grin from ear to ear. He said, "Congratulations! You have a perfect baby boy. Come and see." I went with him, and there he was, yelling his head off, looking just like me--a perfect man-child. Praise God! We thought.

It's true. Never give up hope. Never, ever give up hope.

But two days later our baby was dead. Hope can break your heart.