Where Does It Hurt

There’s something about memory that softens with time. It becomes less about the sharpness of the details and more about the warmth they leave behind—the way certain moments live on, long after the world around us has changed. For me, it’s the sound of a simpler time, the faint echo of a black-and-white Saturday night, Roy Rogers on the old TV, and the steady presence of my dad beside me. Back then, everything seemed easier to see—good and bad, right and wrong, the difference between hurt and healing. Life made sense in the way childhood often does, before the edges blur and the gray seeps in.

But time has a way of changing things. The world grows louder, faster, more complicated. You stop scraping your knees on the playground and start bruising your heart on the weight of life. The pain gets deeper, quieter, harder to explain. And somewhere along the way, that old question—“Where does it hurt?”—becomes harder to answer. Because the pain isn’t always on the surface anymore. It hides beneath responsibilities, behind forced smiles, under layers of quiet endurance.

Still, I can close my eyes and hear my dad’s voice, soft and steady, asking me that question. He couldn’t always fix it, but somehow, his asking was enough. There’s a healing that happens when someone notices your pain, when they care enough to ask and stay long enough to listen. It reminds you that you don’t have to carry it alone.

Now, all these years later, I find myself asking that same question in a hundred different ways. I ask it when I see the weariness in Tim’s eyes after another seizure. When I hear the tremor in his voice as he says he’s fine, even though I know he’s not. When the fear settles heavy in my own chest, and I whisper to God in the quiet of the night, “Where does it hurt? Can You see us down here? Can You make it better?”

Because pain has changed, but the need for comfort hasn’t. It’s no longer just about skinned knees—it’s about bruised spirits, tired hearts, and the weight of days that stretch too long. It’s the ache of watching someone you love fight battles you can’t fix. It’s the exhaustion that settles in when you’re strong for too long.

There are moments when I feel like that child again—broken in ways I can’t name, hoping someone will notice, will reach out and say, “Tell me where it hurts.” And when I do, I realize that the One who hears me doesn’t ask because He doesn’t know—He asks because He wants me to remember that He’s near. That the same gentle love that once came from a father’s voice still echoes through the heart of a Heavenly one.

God doesn’t always take the pain away. But He does something even deeper—He steps into it with us. He sits beside us in the grief, the anxiety, the exhaustion. He doesn’t rush to patch the wound; He holds it until we can breathe again.

When I think about Tim’s journey—our journey—I see that same kind of love. The way God has shown up in small mercies: in the quiet peace that follows the storm, in the friends who check in without being asked, in the laughter that somehow still finds its way through the cracks. The pain doesn’t vanish, but somehow, it becomes bearable. Because love, in its purest form, always finds a way to make it better—even when “better” doesn’t look the way we imagined.

“It’s not the end of the world,” my dad used to say. And back then, I believed him. Maybe I still do. Because even on the hardest days—when the fear feels endless, when the future feels uncertain—it’s not the end. It’s just another part of the story. A chapter where love gets tested and faith grows roots.

And heaven on earth? Maybe that’s not the absence of pain. Maybe it’s found in the moments when we care enough to ask each other where it hurts. When we look past the smiles and the “I’m fines” and make space for the truth. When we hold one another’s pain the way God holds ours—with patience, gentleness, and grace.

Life has a way of taking our childhood simplicity and turning it into something raw and real. But the lessons we learned back then still matter. The kindness of a parent’s voice, the warmth of a helping hand, the reminder that pain doesn’t last forever—all of that still carries us. Maybe that’s what God’s been trying to show us all along: that no matter how deep the wound, love is always deeper.

I think if my dad could see me now—see us now—he’d say the same thing he always did. He’d pull up a chair beside me, look me in the eye, and ask softly, “Tell me where it hurts.” Not because he could fix it, but because love always begins with listening.

And maybe that’s the heart of it all—the reason I still hear that question echo in my spirit, the reason it brings both tears and comfort. Because it reminds me that I’m still seen. That no pain is too small for God to notice. That no heartache is too heavy for Him to hold.

So tonight, as the world keeps spinning and the memories blur between black and white and all the shades of gray, I’ll whisper those words again: “Where does it hurt?” I’ll ask it for Tim, for myself, for anyone who feels unseen. And I’ll listen for the still, small voice that answers back—not with condemnation, not with impatience, but with love that says, “I know. I see. I’m here.”

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s what healing really looks like—not the absence of pain, but the presence of love in the middle of it.

The world has changed so much since those Saturday nights by the glow of the TV. But one thing hasn’t changed at all: the power of love to reach into our broken places and remind us that we are not alone. Whether it comes through the voice of a father long gone, the hand of a friend, or the quiet comfort of a God who never leaves, love still asks the same question—and still waits patiently for our answer.

So tonight, if your heart is aching, if the weight feels too heavy, hear it again: “Tell Me where it hurts.” Not because you need to be fixed, but because you deserve to be held.

It’s not the end of the world. It’s not heaven on earth. But in the middle of all of it—somewhere between the ache and the healing—there’s love. And love will always make it better.