“My heart hurts.“ I’ve been using that phrase off and on since my daughter Stacey coined the phrase when she graduated from high school and realized several meaningful things would never come again.

My aging parents aren’t doing too well these days. My 84-year-old mother is home bound, not able to do much at all. My 92-year-old dad is her tender caregiver. We’re going home in a few days. Dad says he’s anticipating our visit.

We try to go home often. We help them do what they can’t do, we break up the monotony, and we try to give Mom encouragement and Dad a rest.

I cry every time we leave. They are, at their core, thankful people-we all are. But life is not easy. I’m sure it isn’t easy for a lot of us.

I remember when our youngest grandchild Cade was only two. He came for a visit with his older brother and sister and scraped his knuckles on the patio playing with his plastic golf clubs. He insisted on swinging at the golf ball in an ineffective way.

I tried to show him a more proper way to do it, but he insisted on swiping the whole club, from handle to head, across the concrete.

That night while I gave him a bath, he showed me three scraped knuckles.

“Owies,“ he said, scrunching up his face in a loveable way.

“I’ll say,“ I said, without adding I told you so. I lifted him from the tub and wrapped him in a fluffy towel. “I have some cream that will make it feel better.“

“Fix it?“ he asked.

I took him into our bathroom and found the Neosporin. (Given to accidents, I have a tube in every drawer in my house.) I rubbed the “med-cine,“ as Cade called it, gently into his wounded fingers.

“There,“ I said.

As we walked out of the bathroom, he stopped and looked up at me. “Thank um, Ma. It feel betta.“ (He had a little bit of a Southern accent at the time.)

“You’re welcome, Mr.“ I said, feeling quite a bit better myself.

We came into the living room, and he raised his arms for me to carry him. Situated comfortably on my hip, he held up his fingers again for me to get a good look. “Thank um, Ma. It feel better.“

We crossed the room and sat in the rocker and he snuggled against me. Then, as though he had just thought of something, he sat up straight and turned to face me, showing me his scrapes one more time. “Thank um, Ma. It feel better.“

As I looked into his trusting eyes and listened to his thankful heart, as I realized how anxious I was to take care of him, how pleased I was that he needed and wanted me, it came to me that this was a perfect picture of God and me, of God and any of us willing to be his children.

Actually, it has been the picture as long as I can remember, and I expect it will be until I finally close my eyes on this life and open them in the next.

One way or another, my Father has always tended to my hurts, and I know he’ll take care of my parents and their children during this difficult time.

So I rest in him and say, “Thank you, Father. It feels better.“