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A Mother’s Faith, A Father’s Strength, and a Child’s Unshakable Light — The Story of Little John.2680
10-13 minutes
They are deep in their faith, hopeful in the midst of what seems like hopelessness.
They live their lives day to day, finding beauty in small moments as they create memories for their two young sons.
Six-year-old Mark, full of laughter and boundless energy, is the picture of health.
But his little brother — nineteen-month-old John — lives a very different reality.
“John brings light to us every day,” said Julie Gorodetzky, her voice calm yet filled with the weight of love only a mother can carry.
“We are enjoying the time he has left.”
We often talk about the importance of faith in our lives.
But faith, for Philip and Julie Gorodetzky of Kansas City, is not an abstract word — it’s the air they breathe, the strength that keeps them standing, and the reason they smile through tears.
Because faith is tested when you are the parent of a child with Type 2 Gaucher Disease — a rare neurogenetic disorder that affects just one in every 150,000 newborns.
It’s a cruel disease — one that strips the body of vital enzymes.
Without them, fatty substances build up inside cells and organs, slowly shutting them down.
There is no cure.
And the average life span for a baby born with this condition is two years.
John Gorodetzky is 19 months old.
“John is a very happy baby,” Julie told me, smiling through her tears.
And he truly is.
He laughs at his brother’s jokes.
He kicks his feet when music plays.
He gazes at his parents with eyes that seem to hold the wisdom of someone far older than his tiny body allows.
But behind every smile lies a fight invisible to most.
John suffers from scoliosis — his small spine curved in ways that make breathing a challenge.
He endures seizures that shake his fragile frame, and he is losing both vision and hearing.
Still, he smiles.
Still, he shines.
He also has Central Apnea, a condition that causes his breathing to stop, suddenly, for ten… twenty… sometimes thirty seconds at a time.
Moments that feel like eternity for Philip and Julie.
“John is hooked to oxygen by day and a BiPAP machine at night,” Philip explained.
“He is monitored 24 hours a day.”
There have been nights when alarms shrieked, when breath failed, when time stood still.
“There have been a few times we thought we lost him,” Philip said quietly.
“Each time we did CPR until the paramedics arrived,” Julie added.
And somehow, every time, John came back.
Every time, the little boy who shouldn’t have survived kept proving the world wrong.
Faith — unshakable, luminous, raw — is what carries this family through.
Where others might drown in despair, Philip and Julie have learned to see light in the darkest hours.
“We take life day to day,” Julie said.
“And we are blessed that John smiles all day long.”
There’s no self-pity in her tone.
Only gratitude.
Only grace.
“We value each day with John,” she continued softly, “and we know the Lord will give us strength.”
Their home in Kansas City is filled with laughter — not because things are easy, but because they choose joy over fear.
Every day, they take photos.
They read bedtime stories.
They play with bubbles and sing songs, knowing that each day is a gift, and each night is borrowed time.
Every three months, the Gorodetzkys take John to his medical check-ups.
Each visit is both a reminder of fragility and a celebration of resilience.
The doctors can offer only comfort care now.
But in their hearts, Philip and Julie hold onto hope — not for a cure, but for more time.
“We hope John lives another couple of years,” said Philip.
The words hang heavy, but they are spoken with peace.
Because every moment matters.
Every giggle, every grasp of his brother’s hand, every morning that John’s eyes open to see another sunrise — they are miracles in motion.
“John is a perfect example of Patience in Affliction,” Julie said, her voice trembling slightly.
And indeed, he is.
He doesn’t understand his pain.
He doesn’t know his diagnosis.
But somehow, his spirit — pure and bright — carries a serenity that touches everyone who meets him.
His smile has become a sermon.
His laughter, a hymn.
His breath, a prayer.
“We’re enjoying John today,” Philip said with quiet conviction.
“The Lord will take care of tomorrow.”
Every family photographs their memories.
But for the Gorodetzkys, each snapshot is sacred — a treasure of light captured before the inevitable night.
Mark, their older son, doesn’t fully understand what’s happening.
He only knows that his baby brother needs extra hugs, that Mommy and Daddy are often tired, and that sometimes John’s machines make scary noises.
But he also knows that love means being together — and he kisses John’s forehead each night before bed, whispering, “Goodnight, baby brother.”
Julie often sits beside John’s crib long after the house has fallen silent.
She watches the rise and fall of his chest — fragile, rhythmic, uncertain.
And she whispers prayers.
Not prayers for miracles, but for peace.
For meaning.
For courage to accept what comes.
She often recalls a verse from Romans: “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.”
And she smiles, because she knows her little boy embodies every word.
In a world where time is counted in years, the Gorodetzkys have learned to measure life in moments.
A giggle.
A breath.
A sunrise.
A heartbeat.
They live in the now, their faith anchoring them when fear threatens to pull them under.
For them, faith is not about escaping pain — it’s about finding purpose within it.
It’s about choosing to see blessings where others see tragedy.
It’s about trusting that even the shortest life can shine with eternal meaning.
And through John, they’ve come to understand something profound — that sometimes, the smallest souls carry the greatest light.
When the time comes — whether tomorrow, or months from now, or years down the road — they know they will have loved John with every breath of their being.
They will have filled his short life with songs and sunshine, with touch and laughter and prayer.
They will have walked through sorrow, but they will never regret a single moment of loving him.
Because in their faith, love is eternal.
And John — though small, though frail — will forever be their living testament to hope.
“The Lord will take care of tomorrow,” Philip said once more, as if to seal the moment with grace.
And Julie nodded, smiling through tears.
Because for today — for this single, beautiful, borrowed day — John is here.
And that is enough.
At Just 9 Years Old, Owen Faces Cancer, Setbacks, and Still Holds Tight to His Dreams.1375
Here’s to my buddy, Owen Gonzalez.
Owen is only 9 years old, but his life has already been a journey filled with challenges most adults could never imagine.
From Streetman, Texas, Owen is a boy who loves the outdoors, who dreams of running across soccer fields with the wind at his back, and who tells everyone he wants to be a professional soccer player one day.
His laugh is contagious, his energy boundless — or at least, it used to be before illness changed everything.
A month ago, I shared Owen’s story as he bravely fought T-Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia.
At that time, there was hope that things were moving in the right direction.
His treatments were exhausting, but his spirit remained strong, and his family clung to every bit of good news, no matter how small.
But life with childhood cancer is rarely a straight path.
Recently, Owen faced setbacks that have shaken his family to their core.
His mom, Valencia, wrote to me with an update.
Her words carry both pain and resilience:
“Owen was admitted to the hospital because of septic shock on August 26.
We will remain here for another 3–5 weeks. He had a fungal infection in his nose, and an ear infection that is being treated.
Since he had no white blood cells being made, they have had to give him medicines to try and help his body produce the white blood cells to fight this infection off.
The fungal infection in his nose led to sinus surgeries where they had to put him under and remove the infected sinus tissues.
He has already had two procedures and is scheduled for another tissue removal today.
On top of that, he received a PICC line for nutrients since he hasn’t had any food because of nausea and vomiting for over a week.”
Those words are heavy.
They describe a little boy enduring things no child should ever have to face: surgeries, infections, nausea, and the overwhelming weakness that comes when your own body cannot fight back.
For a week now, Owen has not been able to eat because of relentless nausea and vomiting.
A PICC line now delivers the nutrients he needs to stay alive.
His body, too fragile to produce white blood cells, relies on medicine to give him even the smallest chance to fight infections that threaten him every day.
Yet even through all this, Owen’s spirit continues to shine.
Nurses talk about how polite he is, how he smiles even when he’s scared, and how his eyes light up when someone mentions soccer.
His mom says that when he drifts off to sleep, sometimes he dreams of running — running free, with the Texas wind pushing him forward.
The truth is, Owen is not just a patient. He’s a child with dreams, with laughter, with a life worth fighting for.
He is a son, a brother, a friend. His life is measured not only in medical charts and lab results, but in the love that surrounds him and the hope that keeps his family going.
For his parents, each day brings a mix of fear and gratitude.
Fear because the infections, the setbacks, the complications feel relentless.
Gratitude because Owen is still here, still fighting, still showing them what courage looks like in the face of unimaginable pain.
Owen’s story is also one of community.
Friends, neighbors, and strangers have come together to pray for him, to send messages of encouragement, to remind his family that they are not alone in this battle.
There is something powerful about people uniting for a child they may never have met.
In those prayers, in those whispered wishes, lies a kind of strength that transcends hospital walls.
We are reminded that Owen is not defined by cancer. He is defined by his smile, his love of soccer, his dream of running faster than the wind, and his ability to inspire everyone around him.
So here’s to Owen — the boy who keeps teaching us about hope, about resilience, and about the power of community.
Let’s keep sending our best to Owen.
Let’s keep praying that his body finds strength, that his treatments succeed, and that one day soon he will run again — free, joyful, and unstoppable.
Let’s keep believing that all of his dreams, even the biggest ones, can still come true.