During my recent visit to India, I met someone whose joy arrested my heart.
He was overflowing with life, radiant with faith, and fiercely in love with God and His Kingdom. A true stakeholder of heaven.
Many would look at his life and label his condition a disability. But as I soon discovered, he had never accepted that label, not for a moment.
As I sat in their modest living room, I heard a soft, steady buzzing. The sound grew closer. With just the movement of a single finger, he expertly navigated his wheelchair through the dining space, around furniture, and into the living room. He positioned himself confidently, lifted his head, and a smile burst across his face.
Before anyone could introduce him, he declared with joy,
“I am Samson!”
What an irony, some may say. Samson. A name synonymous with strength, power, and might.
And here he was, bound to a wheelchair.
Samson is one of twins. From the very moment of his birth, life hung by a fragile thread. Two or three times, doctors said he would not survive. He lived with cerebral palsy, while his sister received what the world would call the healthy privilege. Doctors once presented his parents with a heartbreaking choice, advising them to let go of his life before it even began. Instead of yielding to fear, they sought the Lord. They chose faith. They chose life.
And God wrote a story only He could author
For 25 years, Samson lived in Bihar, serving on the mission field alongside his parents. The boy the world thought would never contribute became a powerful soul winner. The child once measured by limitations grew into a man overflowing with purpose.
He translated worship songs from Malayalam to Hindi, ensuring that praise crossed language barriers and reached hungry hearts. His voice, his faith, and his obedience carried the gospel farther than many who walk freely.
“The joy of the Lord is your strength.”
Nehemiah 8:10
As I looked around the room that evening, something struck me deeply.
No one was mournful.
Not Samson.
Not his parents.
Not his brother who had come to visit.
He testified of God’s goodness with a smile that preached louder than any sermon. He has written songs to glorify the Lord, songs born not from comfort, but from surrender. Songs forged in weakness, yet overflowing with strength.
His YouTube channel carries a simple but powerful declaration:
“I am a miracle. Physically challenged but differently abled.”
And truly, he is.
This 45-year-old man had refused to let his physical limitations imprison his spirit. There was no bitterness. No anger toward God. Only gratitude
There wasn’t even a trace of sadness in the room.
Every sentence spoken was soaked in encouragement. Every word carried the fragrance of hope. Every moment felt like an invitation to run the race of faith with greater vigor and deeper trust in God.
Samson may not walk, but his faith runs ahead of many who do.
That evening, God gently exposed something in my heart.
How often are we ungrateful?
We complain with healthy bodies.
We doubt with capable minds.
We hesitate with endless opportunities.
Yet here was a man whose body was limited, but whose spirit was completely free.
Samson reminded me that true strength is not measured by muscles or mobility, but by trust. True joy is not the absence of hardship, but the presence of God in the middle of it.
And sometimes, the ones the world pities are the very ones heaven points to and says,
“This is faith.”
That day, I met a man in a wheelchair,
but I encountered a giant in the Kingdom of God.
And I walked away knowing this.
Most of us are not lacking blessings.
We are simply lacking gratitude.
Those who look to Him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.
Psalm 34:5
Samson’s Dream
Then he shared something after I left, in a voice note, which lingered in my brain from the moment I heard it.
When Samson was eight years old, a dream quietly took root in his heart. As a child, he had once attended a special school in Kochi.
But when life brought him to Bihar, that kind of space did not exist.
Children like him were often hidden away, misunderstood, or left behind. Not because families did not love them, but because there were no systems to support them. No schools equipped to meet them where they were. No teachers trained to walk patiently at their pace.
And so the dream was born.
A school for special children in Bihar.
He spoke of it softly, almost unsure if he was allowed to hope so boldly. “I do not know if I will ever be able to open it,” he said, “but this is my deepest desire.”
“One teacher for one child,” he explained. One-on-one. No rushing. No comparison. Just presence. Just patience. Just love.
He wanted each child to be known, not managed. To be nurtured, not merely accommodated. To be taught according to their ability, not punished for their limitation.
“I did not receive that kind of attention,” he said gently. “But I want many children like me to have it.”
In that moment, I realized his dream was not born out of what he had, but out of what he lacked. His longing was shaped by compassion. His vision was formed by empathy.
His body may be limited, but his heart carries room for many.
And perhaps that is what the Kingdom of God looks like. Dreams that may never carry our name, but will carry God’s love to generations we may never meet.
“Commit your work to the Lord, and your plans will be established.”
Proverbs 16:3
Some dreams are not fulfilled in our lifetime. Some are planted so that others may reap.
And Samson’s dream, whether realized by his hands or another’s, already bears the fingerprint of heaven.
Great man
This world is not for the healthier ones it is for the curved, crippled and crushed. Samson you proved it by your life. Let your light kindle the universe.