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Some moments in the hospital stay with me long after I leave. Admittedly, these often come from the paediatric ward (I am a paeds nurse after all!) but they don’t always come from big, dramatic events, often they come from the smallest interactions—ones that don’t seem significant until I take a step back and realise how deeply they’ve moved me.

Recently, I found myself in one of those moments.

I was mentoring on the ward when I heard the sharp, unmistakable cries of a little girl in pain. It was the kind of cry that makes your heart tighten, that tells you she wasn’t just fussy or uncomfortable—she was hurting.

I followed the sound to her bedside, where a student nurse was carefully administering IV medication. The little girl, barely over a year old, screamed in discomfort, tears running down her face as she protested with all the strength her tiny body could muster.

Immediately, I went into assessment mode. Was the student nurse doing everything correctly? Yes. Was the IV line working properly? Yes. Was this medication absolutely necessary for her treatment? Yes.

There was nothing wrong, and yet everything in me wanted to fix it—to stop her from hurting, to make it better, to do something. But I couldn’t take away her pain.

So, I did the only thing I could.

I reached for her hand.

She grasped mine instantly, her little fingers wrapping around mine with surprising strength, as if she had been searching for something to hold onto. I stood beside her, gently stroking her hand, whispering soft reassurances. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Eventually, the student finished, the pain passed, and the crying stopped. But still, she held on.

So, I stood.

There was no urgency, no need to move on. I simply stayed because she wasn’t ready to let go. And in that stillness, as I watched her tiny fingers grip mine, I felt the weight of something sacred.

How many times have I been that little girl?

Crying out in pain, desperate for relief. Begging God to take it away, to make it stop. And so often, the pain remains. The circumstances don’t change. The suffering doesn’t vanish.

But Jesus stands there anyway.

He doesn’t always take the pain away, but He holds my hand through it. He stands beside me in the waiting, in the hurting, in the questions with no answers. He doesn’t rush me to move on, to let go before I’m ready. He simply stays.

And in that moment, I was reminded that love—true, deep, unwavering love—isn’t always about fixing things. It isn’t about having the right words or making everything better.

Sometimes, love is just being there.

It’s standing beside someone in their pain, holding their hand, and staying as long as they need.

And thats enough.