Judaism teaches that parents are inspired with a prophetic moment when choosing their newborn's name.

My Hebrew name Chava means "mother of all living," and I took those words to heart. A bout with polio made me weak in the knees, but it didn’t stop my dreams of motherhood.

At 15, I remember asking my doctors, "Will I be able to have children?" They explained that polio had no effect on the reproductive system. One doctor found my question amusing. "First, try to find a husband!"

By the time I was 30, I began to think he was right. My social life was active, but my dating life was not. Then I met a wonderful man named Michael Levy. We began dating that December, during the Chanukah season.

What a glorious Chanukah that was! We were head over heels in love, learning how many things we had in common: similar values, a passion for words and music and, since Michael is blind, hands-on experience with disability. Married in August, we prayed that G-d would grant our deepest wish: to bring a child into His world.

When doctors informed us that-due to infertility problems unrelated to our disabilities, our chances of having a child were nearly nil, we were engulfed by anguish.

Stunned by the doctor's verdict, we hardly felt like celebrating Chanukah. As I lit the menorah and recited the blessing, "...Who created miracles for our ancestors, in days gone by and in our own time," I couldn’t hold back the tears. Would the miracle we prayed for ever come?

Three months later, I was pregnant. Our jubilation knew no bounds. The doctors sought scientific explanations, but as far as we were concerned, this was the miracle we hoped for.

At the end of my third month, we lost our baby. This emotional rollercoaster ride sent us reeling. We struggled with painful questions-Why did this happen to us? What did we do to deserve this agony? If we were not meant to have children, why would G-d "tease" us with such short-lived joy?-but the answers eluded us. We tried to keep our faith and trust that G-d's love, although hidden, was still with us.

Then in February 1986, Michael and I learned that I was pregnant again. After months of mourning and attempting to make sense of our loss, I felt that all was right once more. There is a G-d in the world after all.

My optimism swelled the next day when a man and his three-year-old son passed on the street and saw me struggling to get myself and my motorized wheelchair into a taxi. The man brought his son over, placed the boy's hand in mine, and told him, "Now, hold on to this lady. I'll be right back." While he proceeded to put my wheelchair into the cab, I marveled at the feel of the child's hand in mine, the look of his lovely face. This was a sign, I remember thinking as I looked at my deformed hand holding his perfect one, which he didn't pull away. This time the little one wouldn't leave me.

But my euphoria turned to dread. In several weeks I discovered that I had an entopic pregnancy: It could have killed me if left unchecked.

It took several months to recover from our loss, but Michael and I were back on the infertility circuit. By Chanukah, I was overwhelmed by failure. Adoption became our goal. In mid-February, in need of a break, we decided to spend a few days in Florida. While there, I began to experience symptoms similar to those of my entopic pregnancy. As we flew home, I said to Michael, "First thing tomorrow, I'm going for a blood test. I can't have this anxiety hanging over my head."

The next morning, I made my way to the lab where I'd gone so often. That afternoon, the phone rang just as I was about to light the Sabbath candles. "Congratulations, Mrs. Levy. You're pregnant!" a cheery voice announced.

Michael and I were too stunned to speak. With tears in our eyes, we prayed that this time G-d would help us bring a child into His world.

He did. The pregnancy had its rough moments, but G-d did not abandon us. Neither did our friends and relatives whose prayers, good deeds and optimism helped us through months of anxiety and anticipation. Our beautiful daughter was born and we named her Tehilah Sarah.

Tehilah means many things: praise, a song, a poem to G-d. And the Bible paints a poignant picture of Sarah (named after my two grandmothers), the matriarch who knew the pain of childlessness but built a dynasty.

Watching our little one blossom, I remember my doctor's dire prediction: "And let's not forget your arms; they're too weak to carry or care for a baby." He was half-right: I can't carry Tehilah, but I can care for her.

When Tehilah was seven months old, I discovered that I can carry her with the help of a baby carrier called Sara's Ride. I sit in my motorized scooter and, once Tehilah is secured on my lap, we roam the streets of New York unaccompanied! At day's end, we often head for Broadway and wait for Michael to emerge from the subway station. When Tehilah spots her Daddy approaching, she gurgles excitedly. Passersby smile at us as we head for home.

People ask us if Tehilah knows yet that her parents have disabilities. The answer is yes-and no. When she was only seven months old, I discovered that Tehilah's "pick-me-up" plea is never directed to me. And one evening, Tehilah started whimpering while we were watching television. We had no idea what was wrong. Suddenly, our little girl gave me a pleading look, turned back toward Michael and then my way once more. "Michael," I said, "you're blocking her view!" Michael moved slightly and Tehilah was content once more.

So yes, Tehilah knows that her parents have disabilities. But she has not learned that most people regard her parents are "different" or even "unfortunate."

Seeing a wheelchair, a Braille book, unfocused eyes or an asymmetrical body is commonplace for our little girl. And Michael and I think that makes Tehilah a very fortunate person. As she gets older, she will discover society's misconceptions about disability.

But, happily, those who lack Tehilah's enlightened upbringing will encounter a refreshingly bemused response from her. We pray that Tehilah will teach them all that disability need not be an obstacle to successful parenthood.

As I will light the menorah for my husband and daughter, I know my eyes will well up again-this time with tears of thanksgiving. Each night as I recite the blessing, "...Who created miracles for our ancestors, in days gone by and in our own time," I will thank G-d for our personal miracle. Each night I will add a special prayer: May our Tehilah grow up knowing that, as her name signifies, she is a song, a poem to G-d.

Chava Willig Levy’s book ‘Deeper by the Dozen’ will soon be published. She can be contacted at primerib@idt.net. This article originally appeared in McCall's.