A slender blade, handleless, is all that is left of this faithful friend.

Years ago, while I was working as a secretary, an engineer in my department stopped at my desk one day and placed a black, pearl-handled letter-opener in front of me.

"Here...would you like this? Some company salesman gave it to me and I don't need it," he said.

Little did this "black dagger" know then the journeys it would take, the news it would open, the handy tool it would become.

It traveled with me wherever I moved--even to the Orient where I served many years as a missionary. Its shiny blade, honed by paper, sliced through sealed barriers of news from home--some sad, some pleasant, some bitter.... It glided through all, undaunted.

Often used to tighten a screw, its twisted, once-sharp tip lay unflinching beneath a hammer's blow when I attempted to straighten it. Once, during a desperate attempt to open a can lid, the pearl handle snapped!

I'm back home in the States now. Here a sleek, gold metal opener is propped on my desktop.

Now and then I notice my handleless dagger at the back of my desk drawer and I wonder how it feels. Useless? Rejected?

While overseas, I often wished for more time to write, but the day-to-day press of more urgent things took precedence. Some day I'll write, I thought.

One day recently I noticed my difficulty in writing. It will get better, I thought--but it didn't. Since I have rheumatoid arthritis, I checked with my specialist. He advised therapy. I also consulted my family doctor. He suggested a neurologist. I went to both. The therapy did not help. My neurologist said I had nerve damage, but he suggested no cure.

After a period of time with my arm and hand in a splint, therapy began again. I waited hopefully for my ability to write as I had. But the many days of therapy that followed did not help. Finally, through the advice of an MRI technician-friend, I requested a test for my spine. The results showed no abnormality.

My after-surgery appointment with my surgeon proved to be a dark day for me. He told me what I had feared from the beginning--the surgery had not been successful. I stared at my right hand in sadness. Now and then my little finger quivered. My ability to open letters and bottles and cans disappeared. Many other things disappeared as well--the ability to style my own hair, brush my teeth adequately, tie my shoestrings, mend a garment . . . .

The saddest for me was losing my ability at the keyboard. Writing has always been a lifetime passion. After retiring from Japan and while participating in a local international ministry, this dream became a reality. In addition to numerous articles and devotionals, a book, entitled Survival of the Unfit, has been published. But now . . . ? My hand fumbles as I make another weak attempt to pick up my pencil.

I recalled that black dagger. It still lies in the back of my desk drawer. I look at my right hand, once able to write letters, take shorthand, record important phone messages, carry heavy luggage in Japan, distribute tons of Gospel tracts at campus gates . . . .

I recall the disciples' question to Jesus, "Why was this man born blind?" I remember Mary and Martha's grief at their loss. The Lord allowed for these feelings of suffering, I tell myself. Didn't He once pray, "If it is possible, let this cup pass from me"?

I look again at my black dagger. Yes, it can still be used.

Does handleless mean hopelessness? No.