Where Does It Hurt

Every Saturday night when I was little, I curled up in front of the old black-and-white TV and watched Roy Rogers. Back then, the world seemed simpler. Everything came through the screen in shades of gray, easy to see, easy to understand. Cowboys were heroes, bad guys wore black hats, and the story always wrapped up neatly before the credits rolled.

But even in that time of simplicity, there were moments when life didn’t feel easy at all. I can still hear my daddy’s voice whenever I fell and skinned my knee. He’d come close, bend down, and ask the same question every time:

“Tell me, where does it hurt? Where is the pain? You know if I could, I’d make it go away. It’s not the end of the world… Did I make it better? Where does it hurt?”

That memory has followed me all my life. It was never just about scraped knees. It was about being seen. About knowing someone cared enough to look me in the eye and wait for my answer. About love that wanted, more than anything, to take the sting away.

Now, so many years later, I find myself on the other side of those words. I hear them in my heart when I look at Tim. When the seizures come. When the depression pulls him under. When he sits in his own quiet despair, fighting battles no one else can see.

I wish I could ask him the same way my daddy once asked me: “Where does it hurt?” Not the easy kind of hurt, like a scraped knee that heals with a Band-Aid and a kiss. But the deep kind — the ache that hides behind his eyes, the weight he carries in silence.

And sometimes, I do ask. Not always in words, but in the way I sit beside him. In the way I remind him he’s not alone. In the way I hold on when the world feels too heavy. But the truth is, I don’t always know how to make it better. I can’t wrap up his story neatly before the credits roll. I can’t color the darkness into black and white, where the good and bad are easy to see.

All I can do is stay. All I can do is keep asking — out loud or in spirit — “Where does it hurt?” And maybe that’s enough. Maybe the asking is the healing in itself.

Because even when I don’t have answers, I carry the memory of my daddy’s voice — that steady, tender reassurance that pain is not the end of the world. That love doesn’t fix everything, but it refuses to leave.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what Tim needs most. Not heaven on earth, not an end to every struggle — but a reminder that someone is here, holding the question, holding him.

Where does it hurt, love? I may not be able to take it away, but I am here. Always here.