I stood beside his recovery bed when his eyes suddenly opened. He blinked, searching the unfamiliar room, his voice soft and uncertain. 

“Is it over? Is the surgery finished?”

I leaned closer and smiled at my husband—my companion of so many years—who had just gone through his second knee replacement. 

“Yes,” I affirmed. “It’s all over.”

He exhaled in quiet wonder. “Wow… I can’t believe it. It feels like no time passed at all.”

Once at home, he settled onto the couch, lifting high and lowering his newly repaired leg with boyish triumph. “I feel great,” he said victoriously. I smiled, then picked up my phone to video the moment, wanting to preserve his antics. But confidence can sometimes run ahead of reality.

A few minutes later, he tried to get up by himself. The immobilizer held his knee straight and firm, unyielding. Slowly—inch by inch—he began sliding downward, slow-motion, gravity pulling him where strength could not hold him. He reached the floor, and I was unable to lift him back up. His face showed his helplessness.  

I called our neighbor. No answer. Then I called our nineteen-year-old grandson, three miles away. He came quickly, his young arms strong, his compassionate heart even stronger. With gentleness and ease, he lifted his grandfather back to his feet.

The next day, the nerve block faded. The swelling rose. And pain—quiet at first—made its full arrival.

The waving of his leg in triumph was replaced with stillness. Recovery had begun in earnest. The medications the doctor prescribed helped carry the burden, but they could not remove it entirely.

I understood this road well. I had walked it myself recently — twice with full knee replacements. Now we found ourselves side by side, not only husband and wife, but fellow travelers in suffering and healing. We took turns steadying one another, speaking words of encouragement when the other grew weary, waiting patiently for strength to return. I had learned much through my own journey of pain. 

Recovery is rarely instant. It slows you down. It humbles you. It strips away illusions of independence and reminds you how deeply you need others. And it reminds you how deeply you need God.

Pain enters every life at some point. For some, it visits briefly and leaves. For others, it remains an uninvited companion for many years. Yet pain does something no comfort ever can—it draws our eyes upward.

When we lie awake in the quiet hours, when movement hurts, and strength feels distant, we find ourselves in what might be called God’s classroom. There, in the sacred stillness of our pain and suffering, when every other voice falls silent, His voice remains. If you listen, you can hear Him. Gentle. Loving. Faithful.

Although it may not feel like it, God is not absent when we suffer—He is present in it. He is not only healing our bodies—He is shaping our souls.

It is only human to want to push suffering away, to escape it entirely. Yet without suffering, we might never discover the depth of God’s incredible love and sustaining grace. We might never know that His strength truly is made perfect in weakness.

In my daily task of placing the ice pack on my husband’s knee to alleviate the swelling, my thoughts went out to the people I have known who had gone through great pain. Then I pondered some of the people in the Bible who also suffered greatly.

Job lost his ten children, his wealth, and his health. His body was covered in painful sores, and he still had to endure harsh criticism from friends. His heart was pierced with grief, yet God never lost sight of him, and in the end, God restored twice what was lost.  

Joseph was betrayed by his own brothers, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and forgotten in prison. Yet God was quietly weaving redemption through every thread of his pain.

Jeremiah, called the “weeping prophet,” was mocked, beaten, and thrown into a cistern. He lived his life with constant rejection, yet God called him faithful.

Paul was beaten, stoned, imprisoned, shipwrecked, in pain, peril, hunger and thirst, and afflicted with his mysterious “thorn in the flesh,” yet he discovered that Christ’s grace was sufficient.

And Jesus.  No one suffered more than Jesus. Rejected by those He came to save. Mocked, beaten, abandoned, and crucified. He carried not only physical agony, but the weight of the world’s sin. Yet through His suffering came our salvation.

So, when pain enters your life, and the question arises, “Where are You, God?” you can know with certainty, as David knew, the one who wrote the Psalms, that He is nearer than ever.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

“You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in Your bottle.” (Psalm 56:8)

Your tears are not unseen. Your cries are not unheard. Your suffering is not meaningless. God does His deepest work in the soil of suffering.

The apostle Paul reminds us:

“So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.” (2 Corinthians 4:16–17)

Our earthly bodies will age, and there will be times when we feel like they’re just falling apart. For Christians, there is something to look forward to. One day, God will give us glorified bodies—free from pain, free from decay, free from suffering forever. Every ache will be gone. Every tear will be wiped away.

Until then, when pain comes, know that we do not walk alone. God walks beside us through the pain. He strengthens us. He carries us.

He brings your family and friends to lift your spirits. He sends prayer warriors to pray over you. 

And sometimes, He even sends a grandson to help lift us back on our feet.