Watch the video at the end of this article.
Introduction
We had only been at the hospital for less than ten minutes yesterday when the tears began to fall. The nurse had applied some numbing cream to the inside of both of Bubba Strait’s arms, telling my son that it would help him not feel the “poke” of the needle they would use to draw the blood they needed. Yet even with that small comfort, fear still found its way in. It is strange how quickly a place meant for healing can become a place of trembling silence, where every sound feels louder, every second feels heavier, and every heartbeat feels like it is holding its breath.
He tried to be brave. I could see it in the way he clenched his hands, in the way his eyes searched mine for reassurance. But bravery in a child is never about absence of fear—it is about standing still while fear shakes you from the inside. And in that moment, I wished I could take all his fear into my own body and carry it for him. I wished I could tell his heart that nothing here would hurt him, that every needle, every machine, every white wall was only trying to help.
But life does not always allow us to protect the ones we love from pain. Sometimes all we can do is stay close. Sometimes love is not fixing—it is simply holding.
When the tears came, they came quietly at first, like rain beginning to fall on dry ground. Then they became more certain, more visible, and the room seemed to pause with us. The nurse spoke softly, gently reminding him to breathe, reminding him that it would be quick, that it would be over before he knew it. But to a child in that moment, “quick” does not matter. What matters is the feeling of uncertainty, the unknown sting, the loss of control.
And still, he endured it.
There is a kind of strength that only reveals itself in small hospital rooms. It is not loud. It does not celebrate itself. It simply survives the moment.
Afterward, when it was done, there was a silence that felt different. Not empty—but softened. The kind of silence that follows a storm when the sky has not yet cleared, but the worst has already passed. I held him closer then, feeling the tension slowly leave his body, as if his fear had been too heavy for him to carry alone and was finally being set down.
In that quiet space, I whispered a prayer—not with perfect words, but with a trembling heart.
Lord, be near to this child.
Hold what we cannot hold.
Take his fear and turn it into peace.
Let every needle become healing, not harm.
Let every tear become strength, not sorrow.
And when he cannot understand what is happening, let him still feel safe in love.
Give wisdom to the hands that care for him.
Give gentleness to every voice that speaks to him.
And give us, as parents, the strength to remain steady when our hearts are breaking quietly inside.
Let this moment pass gently.
Let healing begin without fear.
And let peace stay longer than pain ever could.
Amen.
Video