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This is the third installment in the 1517 articles series, “What Makes a Saint?”
"We feebly struggle, they in glory shine." [1]
I did not know how hard those words would hit until I stood at my wife Jill's memorial service, unable to sing them.
We chose the hymn For All the Saints because Jill loved it. She cherished its sweeping promises, its echo of Scripture, and its honest acknowledgment that life here can be challenging. But when the congregation began to sing stanza four, "O blessed communion, fellowship divine; we feebly struggle, they in glory shine," I could not do it. The words caught in my throat. All I had were tears. When I had no words, the Church lent me hers. Their song carried the gospel when I could not.
My suffering did not start that day; it had been with me for a long time. Not just because of Jill's illness and death but because life in this broken world wears you down in ways you cannot always name. Yet, standing there with nothing but tears, the suffering was undeniable and palpable. It was not just sadness; it was pain. The kind that wraps itself around your ribs and does not let go, making you forget how to breathe.
Suffering is certainly one of the things that makes a saint. Not because saints suffer more or suffer better but because saints belong to Christ. Those who belong to Christ do not suffer alone; we suffer with him. Not for salvation, but in union with the one who has already suffered for us and never lets go (Rom. 8:17, Phil. 3:10, 2 Cor. 1:5, 1 Peter 4:13).
Jill was a woman of deep and unwavering faith. Her trust in Christ was unshakable, not because life was easy, but because the promises of Jesus were sufficient. She did not pretend that death was not approaching. She did not deny that it would be painful. She knew her saintly experience on the other side of death would be glorious: no more pain, no more sorrow. Yet, she also understood that those of us left behind would suffer. And she did not attempt to soften that.
Scripture tells us, "We do not grieve as others do who have no hope" (1 Thess. 4:13). That is true. Hope is ours. Resurrection is real. However, sometimes, we rush to the second part of that verse too quickly, skipping ahead to hope while trying to leave grief behind. But the verse does not say we do not grieve. It says we do not grieve as those who have no hope.
Saints grieve, and saints suffer. Saints feel the deep sting of absence. Saints cry until there are no more tears. Saints kneel beside hospital beds. Saints struggle to pray. Saints bury their loved ones. Hope does not erase grief. It gives it form. It means the tears will not last forever, but it never claims we do not cry them.
There is a line from the children's book, We're Going on a Bear Hunt, that echoes in my mind when I think about grief and suffering. Every time the characters encounter an obstacle, they say:
We can't go over it.
We can't go under it.
Oh no!
We've got to go through it! [2]
There are no shortcuts to suffering. No detours. Just a slow, sometimes stumbling walk through the ache of absence.
That is where I have been. I am a single dad now. When Jill died, our daughters were 19 and 20. Grown, yes, but still her girls. And like me, they suffered. Each in their own way. Grief came in waves, quiet at times and overwhelming at others. It still does. Just like me, and just like you, they are saints who suffer.
Dr. Scott Keith wrote in his book Being Dad, "The father is called to be the voice of the gospel in the home. His vocation is to forgive, to comfort, and to speak Christ to his children." [3]
That's what I strive to do. Some days it feels clumsy. Some days it's barely a whisper. But that calling endures. Not because I do it well, but because Christ does.
Suffering doesn't unbaptize you. It does not silence the absolution. It does not undo the body and blood given and shed for you.
This season has been one of suffering, not the kind that fades with time, but the type that reshapes you. And yet, even here, Christ has not let go. I have not been given answers, but I have been given Jesus. And for a suffering saint, that is not nothing; that is everything.
Suffering doesn't unbaptize you. It does not silence the absolution. It does not undo the body and blood given and shed for you. In my loneliest seasons, I have been drawn to church not because I felt strong but because I was not. I needed to hear the voices of the saints around me singing what I could not express. I needed to be enveloped by the living Body of Christ. I needed to join the saints at the altar, where heaven and earth meet, and partake in the marriage feast of the Lamb, knowing that Jill is just on the other side of that thin veil.
This is what it means to be a saint who suffers: to carry sorrow and yet still be carried. To be wounded and still be welcomed. To be broken and yet still be fed.
Jill understood suffering long before we ever met. When she was just seven years old, her father, a Lutheran pastor, died unexpectedly. He was a servant of Christ who baptized, proclaimed the gospel, and comforted others. And now he, too, rests in the presence of Jesus.
Jill's life was shaped by that loss but not defined by it. The same was true of her cancer. Jill never cared to be defined by a diagnosis or to receive anyone's sympathy. She was simply Jill: child of God, teacher, mom, and friend. Her identity was never found in what she endured but in who held her. In baptism, she was named by grace. That is what sustained her in suffering, and that is what holds all the saints.
Jill loved the hymn "Thy Strong Word." We sang it at her memorial service, and I can still hear the echoes of its final stanza rising into that sanctuary that March morning:
Give us lips to sing Thy glory,
Tongues Thy mercy to proclaim,
Throats that shout the hope that fills us,
Mouths to speak Thy holy name! [4]
That was Jill's life. God gave her lips that sang his glory and a voice that proclaimed his mercy, sometimes in a classroom, sometimes in a restaurant, sometimes with friends, and even with strangers sitting at the bar. She trusted that the Word she spoke and clung to would do what it said. The same Word that once spoke light into darkness would call her by name and raise her from the grave. She believed it with a certainty that did not come from herself but from the One who promised.
The book of Revelation gives us this picture of what comes next: "The Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes" (Rev. 7:17).
That is not a metaphor. That is a promise. Spoken to you by the same Savior who called you by name in baptism, who feeds you at his table, and who holds you in your suffering. He will not let you go. Saints suffer. Saints feebly struggle. But they do not suffer without hope.
Jill is there now: safe, whole, and at peace. With her father, with the saints, with the Savior who forgave every sin and carried her through death into life. And this is where you are going, too. Because Christ was crucified for you, Christ was raised for you, and Christ will come again for you.
Suffering does not make you less of a saint.
You are baptized. You are forgiven. You are fed. You are not alone. And soon, you too will join the feast that has no end, where the saints shine in glory, and the Lamb wipes away every tear. This is the promise for you.
So take heart, suffering saint. You are not forgotten. You are not failing. You are not falling behind in faith. Suffering does not make you less of a saint. It simply means you are living in the not-yet, still held by the one who has already finished the work for you. You belong to Jesus. And because of that, your suffering will not have the last word. Christ will. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, without end!
[1] How, William Walsham. For All the Saints. 1864. Lutheran Service Book, no. 677, Concordia Publishing House, 2006.
[2] Rosen, Michael, and Helen Oxenbury. We're Going on a Bear Hunt. Margaret K. McElderry Books, 1989.
[3] Keith, Scott. Being Dad: Father as a Picture of God’s Grace. 1517 Publishing, 2016, p. 66.
[4] Franzmann, Martin H. Thy Strong Word. 1954. Lutheran Service Book, no. 578, Concordia Publishing House, 2006.
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