I stopped sniffling and looked at her. Her mild blue eyes smiled into mine. Behind them lay an iron will. "We' ll have to work very hard， you and I， but I think we can do it. Now that I know what the problem is， we can try to overcome it. I' m going to hire a tutor who knows about dyslexia. I' ll work with you myself evenings and weekends." Her eyebrows drew down as she peered at me. "Are you willing to work， Peter？ Do you want to try？"
A ray of hope shone through the hazy future. "Yes， Mom. I want to real had."
The next six years were an endurance run for both of us. I studied with a tutor twice a week until I could haltingly read my lessons. Each night， my mom and I sat at my little desk and rehearsed that day' s schoolwork for at least two hours， sometimes until midnight. We drilled for tests until my head pounded and the print blurred before my eyes. At least twice a week， I wanted to quit. I had the strength of a kitten， but my mom' s courage never wavered.
She' d rise early to pray over my school day. A thousand times I heard her say， "Lord， open Peter' s mind today. Help him remember the things we studied."
Her vision reached beyond the three R' s. Twice I won at statewide speech competitions. I participated in school programs and earned a license to work as an announcer on a local radio station.
Then my mother developed chronic migraines during my senior year. She blamed the headaches on stress. Some days the intense pain kept her in bed. Still she' d come to my room in the evening， wearing her robe， an ice pack in her hand， to study with me.
We laughed and cried when I passed my senior finals. Two days before graduation I talked to my mother and father about Bible college. I wanted to go， but I was afraid.
Mom said， "Apply at the Bible Institute in our town. You can live at home， and I' ll help you."