One night in the early '50s when I wasn't quite two years old, I sat in front of the television with my parents and three older brothers at our home in rural Ohio. At one point, the room became silent. I thought one of my brothers had turned the sound off, so I turned the volume up. When no sound emerged, I turned the control higher until my middle brother, Paul, pushed me away and turned the knob down. The room remained shrouded in silence, so I turned the volume up again. Paul and I played this up-and-down game until my mom pulled me away. She had a stern look in her eyes, but I thought she was playing because her lips moved silently like the people's on television.

The moment I touched the knob again, I was hauled off to my room. I remained there for the first long, very silent night of the rest of my life.

The next morning, Mom realized something was wrong when I didn't respond to her greeting. She talked, clapped, and shouted near me. No response. Tears filled her eyes as I watched her, and I couldn't figure out why she was crying and acting so silly.

Mom rushed me to a doctor's office where a man with a light strapped to his head examined my throat, nose, and ears. He finally turned to Mom and shook his head. She walked over and drew my head tight against her chest. When she stepped back, tears streamed down her face.

Mom's fears had been confirmed: For some inexplicable reason, I was completely deaf. And not even the doctor could explain why. With a hearing loss of more than 80 decibels, not only was I deaf to people and animals, but also to airplane engines, honking horns, and screaming sirens.

Though my parents were devastated that I was permanently trapped in a soundless world, they vowed to help me remain as much a part of the hearing world as possible. This first led me to Youngstown Hearing and Speech Center in Ohio when I was three. There I spent painstaking hours learning how to pronounce words by imitating the shape of my teacher's mouth and the vibration on her throat when she spoke. So many times I wanted to run and play; I didn't understand why I had to work so hard at what came naturally to most children. But I finally graduated from this program when I was five and entered kindergarten with the other hearing children.

In school, students teased me because my voice was different. Two boys in particular, Raymond and Jimmy, terrorized me in the halls and at recess. Teachers thought I wasn't bright because I froze when I had to speak aloud in class and couldn't read their lips when they turned to write on the chalkboard. I felt everyone viewed me as deaf and dumb. Books, roller skating, music, and my imaginary playmate, a black stallion named Boo, became my retreats from these torments and frustrations.

My family attended church every Sunday. I couldn't hear the songs, prayers, or lessons, so I got nothing out of it. Nevertheless, I can't remember a time when I didn't believe in God. Mom often told me about Jesus' love—that he would always help me, no matter what. When my dog wasn't around to share my feelings with, I talked with Jesus. I told him I was lonely and that there were things I didn't understand about my silent world. In his own time, I knew he would somehow make everything better.

Despite failing many classes, I was promoted each year to the next grade. When my high-school typing teacher noticed I could type 127 words a minute, she suspected I might not be as dumb as everyone assumed. She requested I take an IQ test, and the results indicated I had above-average intelligence. This teacher was the first to suggest college as a viable option for me, and informed me that Ohio residents were guaranteed the opportunity to attend a state university for at least two semesters.

At Ohio State, I started drinking and occasionally using drugs. By getting "plastered" with the other students at parties, I no longer felt isolated. But many nights I felt so empty afterward I went on a crying rampage when I got back to my room.

When I transferred to a small liberal-arts college, I started attending a nearby cathedral. After discussing what it meant to have faith in Jesus with the church leaders, I asked to be baptized. As I stood beside the baptismal font, I was flooded with painful memories: feeling isolated at the family dinner table amidst laughter or anger; being made fun of in elementary school; drinking myself into a stupor to be accepted; trying desperately to fit into the mold of the hearing world. I wanted Jesus to wash away these hurts in the baptismal water.

In 1976, I graduated with a double major in political science and international relations. I was excited to see where my diploma would lead. To my dismay, it led nowhere. I applied for dozens of jobs, but nobody wanted my help. The barrier was my deafness.

Finally I heard about a new FBI program for the deaf in Washington, D.C., that involved classifying fingerprints. FBI agents would train me, and the pay was great. Considering the per capita income for the deaf is below poverty level, this was like a dream come true.

After I was accepted into the program and relocated, my enthusiasm quickly diminished. The painstaking work involved classifying fingerprints endless hours every day. I feigned interest as long as I could, but after sorting several hundred prints, I politely explained to my supervisor that I hadn't struggled through voice therapy and college to spend my life counting fingerprint ridges. A few days later, I was reassigned to the FBI's typing pool.

One day, my supervisor told me I was wanted at the front office. I was ushered into a room with seven agents sitting around a table. They asked how I'd adjusted to the move and whether I was happy working for the FBI. As we talked, one of the agents expressed his amazement at my lip-reading ability.

"You may be able to help us," one man explained. "We filmed a transaction between one of our agents and two suspects in a current case, but the camera's sound mechanism failed. All we have is footage of three people talking, but we can't understand what was said. So we were wondering if … "

"If I could watch the video and tell you what's going on?" I finished. When I happily agreed, I was sequestered in a room with a projector and screen. The case in the video involved illegal gambling operations. At one point, the "bad guys" opened a large briefcase. Inside were thousands of dollars of bribe money in neatly banded stacks of twenty-dollar bills—just like you'd see in a Hollywood movie. I jotted down the dialogue word by word.

After completing that project, I began working with the FBI's surveillance program. Using specially equipped vans, agents shot videos of various suspects talking in the park and walking down the street. Again, I simply watched the tapes and transcribed what they said.

As time went by, I became involved in higher profile cases. Since the surveillance work didn't fill a full-time position, I asked to become a FBI tour guide as well. With this more visible position, I became one of its leading public relations spokespersons. Letters commending the FBI for hiring a disabled person in a visible post poured into headquarters. I reveled in the publicity. My struggles in Ohio seemed like a long-forgotten dream. I thought life couldn't possibly get better. But not everything was as it seemed.

I began to see the emptiness of the "privileged" lives around me. At posh gatherings, I mingled with the elite of Washington. While at first I was impressed, I soon realized how much these events seemed like adult versions of grade-school show-and-tell, with everyone trying to outdo each other with their new Jaguar or diamond brooch. No one, it seemed, was happy. I had few real friends.

Trying to keep up with this lifestyle took a toll on my finances. I was living two hours away from work in the only place I could afford, and the long commute was eating up my days. At the same time, medical problems forced me to have a hysterectomy. With medical and financial pressures looming large, I couldn't help but think there was more to life than the FBI. Surely this prestigious job wasn't worth the toll it took on my life. I wanted to reestablish my weed-eaten spiritual roots and regain control of my life.

I began attending a church in nearby Virginia. As I discussed my feelings with the pastor, he suggested I take a break from work for a year or two and attend classes at Columbia Bible College seminary in South Carolina.

Thanks to the clever work of the financial aid office and God's provision, I was able to afford seminary. And there I became intoxicated with my newfound knowledge about God and the Bible. With each passing month, I felt the sacrifices I'd made in leaving a prestigious job were worthwhile. I gained deep satisfaction from my emotional and spiritual growth.

I'd loved God all my life, but I came to realize I'd been disappointed he'd never answered my prayers for healing. Here I was, a people person trapped in a silent, isolated world, and I knew God could do something to change that—but he never did. It wasn't until seminary that I came to accept that God planned an entirely different journey for me than the one I'd wanted—but one in which I've seen his grace and known his companionship in ways I wouldn't have otherwise. In seminary I finally came to the foot of the cross and totally gave my life to Jesus. Only then did I go from merely accepting my deafness to seeing it as a tool God could use.

Shortly before graduating, I addressed the student body at a special chapel service dealing with deaf awareness. A visiting administrator from the U.S. Center for World Mission heard about my presentation. Later that night, he asked if I'd come to California and begin an organization that would bridge the gap between the hearing and deaf worlds.

Though I was reluctant to move across the country, I said yes, knowing this would be a great way for God to use my experiences for his glory. Once we had the organization, SOUND, up and running, I began speaking wherever I was invited—at first to small groups here and there. At each gathering, whether it was for the deaf or hearing, I talked candidly about the mistakes I made, the obstacles I overcame, and the hope and forgiveness I finally experienced from God during my darkest hours. Often I ended by singing "Silent Night."

Soon I was traveling across the country, speaking at various schools, churches, hospitals, and civic organizations, as well as on television and radio. Through my life, people began to understand the unique needs of the deaf—as well as God's ability to help them overcome the barriers in their own lives.

God also granted my need for companionship in this new part of the country with a hearing dog named Levi. Before he arrived, I never knew when somebody rang the doorbell. Now, Levi would lead me to whatever noise needed my attention: the doorbell, the phone, my alarm clock. Plus he was a great guard dog and friend!

In 1990 I wrote a book about my life, and Columbia Pictures bought the movie rights to it. In the end, they thought the story was too spiritual, so they let it go. Then another movie company had the option and even had two screenwriters develop the script for a movie, but they couldn't come up with the funding. Several years ago, those screenwriters, Dave and Gary Johnson, the men behind the popular PAX show Doc, took the script to the network and said my story needed to be made into a TV series. Amazingly, that finally happened. Sue Thomas: F.B.Eye debuted on PAX in October 2002. The show is based on my years working surveillance for the FBI, but the cases are fictitious for security reasons. What's wonderful is that because of the show, I've been able to share my story—including God's role in it all—with NBC's Today show, TV Guide, the Washington Post, and the New York Post. My prayer is that the show offers hope to parents whose children struggle for whatever reason, or to kids who are the target of bullies. I want them to know it won't always be that way, to encourage them to keep going.

Lately, I've had to remind myself of that same message, as I recently was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. Sometimes the disease makes me too weak to walk, and my eyesight is affected. I now read with a magnifying glass. If I lose my eyesight entirely, I guess I'll become the next Helen Keller!

While the future's uncertain, I want to keep bridging the gap between the hearing and deaf worlds. My life's dedicated to that as long as I have breath in my body—or until the day the heavenly trumpet calls God's saints home. At that moment, the deaf will hear, the lame will walk, and the mute will speak. On that day of glory, perhaps I'll ask God to replay for me the songs I missed along the way—the song of falling rain, a baby's laughter, church bells ringing, and ocean waves crashing. And then I'll repay the favor by raising my voice on high, as heavenly hosts sing "Alleluia."

By Sue Thomas