Some moments, ones that sting with pain, are working to give you hope and a purpose. They are God fulfilling his promises.

“Mama, can you help me?” the piercing voice screamed. “Please, can you help me? Help me!”

My painful decision

Two nurses stood on either side of my three-year-old’s body, one pinning his hands above his head, the other firmly securing his legs to the emergency room bed. Tears streamed down his feverish face as I nestled my hand in his, my own tears burning, begging to come to the surface. I took a deep breath of composure as I leaned in and whispered, “Hunny, this is Mommy helping you.”

Though the entire procedure lasted no longer than two minutes, it felt as though two hours had passed while I wrestled with my decision—consoling the very toddler upon whom I had inflicted this pain.

I replayed the consultation with the emergency room doctor: “We have two options: We can collect the urine via a bag or a catheter. The bag is uncomfortable, not necessarily painful, but there is a higher risk for error. The catheter is painful, but it will give us the most accurate result.”

“We need to cath him,” I replied, without hesitation. “We need accuracy.”

And with that, I had given my permission for the medical team to insert a tube and drain my son’s bladder, fully knowing trauma and pain would be part of the package—a necessary casualty.

“Mama, all done. All done!” His small, soft voice cried, bringing me back to the moment.

The nurses removed the catheter as two tiny hands held my neck in a death grip.

“All done, hunny. All done,” I affirmed.

Ninety minutes passed as we lay there in the hospital bed, awaiting results from the lab. I held my febrile toddler close, noting that the 107-degree fever that landed us in the emergency room must have gone down because he was significantly cooler.

The feeling of relief from that realization was short-lived as I replayed the previous seven days of our lives—all tainted by mysterious, unrelenting fevers—and considered the gravity of our current situation.

“Did I make the right call? Was it necessary? What if I was wrong?” The questions were coming in waves, drowning me in doubt.

Making decisions on behalf of another person is not something I truly considered before becoming a parent. Sure, I knew I would have to make them in a parenting-is-hard; you’ll-be-exhausted; there-is-no-manual kind of way. But to be in a room with a doctor and elect to inflict pain on your child—well, that hits home on an entirely different level.

“Well, we know the cause of the fever,” the doctor announced as she came into the room, her white coat serving as my own version of a knight in shining armor. “He has a UTI.”

And with that, relief washed over me, pulling all the anxiety and doubt with it in one swift tide.

As the doctor ordered the antibiotics and we awaited discharge, I considered how the pain I allowed to be inflicted on my son was necessary for his health. It felt so contradictory that there needed to be pain to achieve wellness—a juxtaposition in the most confusing form. Still, the proof was looking at me with two longing, tired blue eyes.

If I had said no to the catheter, we might not have caught the UTI. If we didn’t catch the UTI, he could have gone septic. If he had gone septic, our stay would have been much longer, much more painful.

It really was that simple.

God’s purposeful plan

As I reflected on this series of events, I began thinking how God could relate.

How many times has God had to hold us, kicking and screaming?

How many times has he listened to our groans and heard our cries, all while reassuring us that the very situation we are complaining about is actually him helping us?

If I had to guess, I would say too many.

Our neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) experience in 2020 was like that for me. I was kicking and screaming the entire time—for seven weeks straight. Every piece of me ached through that experience. I couldn’t see the light. I couldn’t see the vision—the big, beautiful plan beyond those sterile walls.

It all felt so painful, and I could not see why God would allow this heartache into my life.

There needed to be pain to achieve wellness.

I was too close to it then.

But now? Well, now I see it. Now I see the vision.

Because in the years that have passed since that experience, I have found a lot of purpose in my life. There has been redemption in the story that I was so quick to write off, so quick to disassociate from my life.

It’s taken time and distance, consideration and prayer, but I can see it.

I can see the delicate stitching and appreciate the embroidery. The artist’s work is obvious as I stand in awe of a tapestry so carefully crafted, so beautifully designed, it had to be created by God himself.

I can see how God used my NICU experience to bring about a genetic diagnosis that was needed to get my son the proper care. It’s evident that those seven weeks were necessary for me to gain perspective and serve as a resource for other families. It’s apparent that, though heart-wrenching and agonizing, I needed that time among those sterile walls to provide me with direction and steer me into volunteer opportunities, advocacy networks, and the kind of meaningful work that sets your soul on fire.

I needed all of that, needed God, to make that happen.

There are going to be moments in your life too. Maybe (probably) there already have been. And you are going to want to fight it. Like Jacob in the Old Testament (Genesis 32:22-32), you’re going to want to wrestle with God.

And that’s okay, because these moments are not going to be easy. They’re going to be painful.

But that doesn’t mean they’re intended to harm you—quite the opposite, actually. These moments, the very ones that sting with pain, are working to give you hope and a purpose. They are God fulfilling his promises.

Think of the aged metal a goldsmith receives, tarnished by time. Knowing its value, the goldsmith sets out to refine it—but there is only one way to do it: by fire. The gold has to go through a careful process and be melted down to remove its impurities, renew its character, and restore its beauty.

It’s intense and challenging and altogether messy, but in the end, only a pure, stunning result exists.

You, friend, are the gold—and the almighty Creator is skillfully refining you.

Trust him to do the work.

Read Megan Neisius’ first article in FIC, detailing the medical and spiritual journey that began when her son was born. 

Author: Megan Neisius
Volume 112, Number 10
Issue: October 2025