We were wrapping up a church ministry meeting, casual mom-chatter humming around the outdoor patio, when a soul-piercing scream cut the air and turned every head. I didn’t realize it was my son until Jude turned around — blood gushing down his little face.

Later, I’d learn he had bent down to grab a rock and gashed his forehead on the jagged edge of a cinderblock planter. Later, my husband would tell me that it’s normal for head wounds to bleed a lot. But in the moment, the only thing I could register was the horror and helplessness of watching my toddler hurt and hysterical.

By the time we got to Urgent Care, the bleeding had slowed, but the evidence of trauma was everywhere — smeared across Jude’s tear-streaked cheeks and soaked into my shirt sleeve where he had buried his little face.

The waiting room felt eternal, though now I know that was the easy part.

Once called back, the doctor quickly determined Jude needed stitches. Any parent knows how hard it is to keep a squirmy two-year-old still and calm on a good day, let alone when a needle is involved. So we agreed to swaddle him tightly — arms pinned, legs tucked — his small frame now restrained for his own good. My husband and I stood on either side, speaking calmly, trying to infuse comfort into chaos.

Then the doctor said she needed to cover his face with a thin sheet of sterile paper to protect the suture site and his eyes.

The moment that crinkly paper settled over Jude’s face — cutting off his vision of us — he lost it.

The entire Urgent Care surely heard his blood-curdling screams.

“Mommy! Mommy! Moooommmmmy!”

He cried out for me again and again, even though I was right there — my voice in his ear, my hands on his legs, my heart breaking in my chest. No matter how I reassured him, as long as Jude couldn’t see me, his terror consumed him.

That was more than a decade ago. The scar on his forehead has faded. But I’ve never forgotten what it felt like to be on the other side of that barrier — aching to rip the sheet away, to cradle my son in safety, to stop the pain. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because the barrier was protection, the pain was part of healing, and the distance between us was temporary.

Everyone in the room knew that.

Everyone except the little boy sweating and screaming under a thin veil of paper.

Isn’t that how suffering feels sometimes?

When pain is pulsing through your story and fear is your constant companion, it’s nearly impossible to see anything — or anyone — else. The trial becomes the truest thing. The ache is all you can feel.

And you cry out to your Heavenly Father.

You beg Him to come close. To rescue. To stop the pain.

You wonder why He doesn’t rip off the thing that’s blocking your view, why He doesn’t unbind you, why He doesn’t heal you in an instant. After all, He could.

I’ve asked those why’s too.

I don’t have tidy-bow answers. But I have tasted the presence of God even in the places I couldn’t see Him. I’ve learned that what feels like distance isn’t absence. What feels like silence isn’t neglect.

God is not indifferent to your suffering. He is not removed from your anguish. He’s the Father standing beside you, speaking words of love you may not be able to hear through your sobs. He is the one who is with you even when you can’t feel Him near.

Scripture anchors us in this truth:

“Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; he will neither fail you nor abandon you.”
Deuteronomy 31:8 NLT

You may be in a season where the pain is loud and God feels hidden. But hold fast to this promise: He has not left. He is not done.

The barrier is not forever. Healing is on its way.

And hope — real, soul-deep, God-given hope — will meet you there.

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Listen to Becky’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast!

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