Oops! I Might be like Job's Wife

Anna Portillo
Jul 31
5 min read

written by Pastor José Portillo

When suffering surrounds us, how do we respond? What do we say when we reach the edge of our strength?

I’ve always read the story of Job with Job in mind. He is the one front and center. The one who lost his wealth, his children, his health. The one covered in sores, scraping his skin in the ashes. The one whose name titles the book. The one whose faith is tested and proven.

But recently, after a long week filled with funerals, pastoral calls, tears with the grieving, long conversations with those facing depression, and walking closely with someone battling difficult health issues—I found myself no longer identifying with Job.

Instead, I realized:

Oops!… I might be like Job’s wife.

We often forget that she, too, lost everything. She gave birth to those children. She built that home. She dreamed those dreams. And now, everything is gone. She is standing beside her husband—but this time he is in ruins. The strong one is now weak. Her anchor now lies in dust and pain. And in her one recorded sentence, she speaks from that anguish:

“Are you still maintaining your integrity? Curse God and die.” (Job 2:9)

We judge her quickly. We write her off as weak, bitter, even faithless. But I’ve come to see her not just as a warning—but as a mirror. She is not wicked. She is broken. She has run out of words. She is not dealing well with the weight of her own grief, and now, she must watch her husband endure even worse.

And I understand that now more than ever.

There’s a sorrow that comes when the one you love—your source of strength—is crushed. When you turn for comfort and find them barely able to speak. When the one who helped carry your burden is now buried beneath their own.

There’s a pain that overwhelms when your own sorrow has filled you to the brim, and someone else’s suffering pours in over the top.

It becomes hard to breathe. Hard to pray. Hard to speak life.

It becomes easier to lash out. To shut down. To say things you never thought you’d say.

There is an imbalance that grief brings. At first, tragedy strikes both. But then the suffering shifts. One becomes the object of concern. The other becomes invisible.

Job’s friends came for him. But who came for her?

We live in a world quick to comfort those in physical pain, but slow to see those crushed emotionally, spiritually, silently. And sometimes, the ones suffering just a little less on the outside carry guilt, anger, confusion, and fear that is no less real—just less noticed.

As I reflected, I was reminded of another moment of anguish. In the Garden of Gethsemane.

Jesus, in deep sorrow, overwhelmed to the point of death, sweating blood. But in His agony, He did not curse. He did not run. He prayed.

Prayer became His place of surrender—where He accepted the cup of suffering entrusted to Him. Prayer became His place of strengthening—where angels ministered to Him. Prayer became His preparation for the weight of the cross.

And then—amazingly—He turned to His disciples and said:

“Watch and pray, so that you will not fall into temptation.” (Matthew 26:41)

He knew what was coming. He knew that unprepared hearts break easily under pressure. He urged them to prepare in prayer, so they wouldn’t be overtaken in the trial.

But they slept.

And when the suffering came, they fled—not because they didn’t love Him, but because they weren’t ready.

They could not stand with Him, because they had not stood before God.

We Fall to the Level of Our Preparation

We often think we will rise to the occasion. But the truth is, we fall to the level of our preparation.

If we haven’t been strengthened in prayer, if we haven’t brought our hearts to God before the storm, we will find ourselves empty.

And from that emptiness comes bitterness, self-pity, and words that wound instead of heal.

We say things like:

“Get over it already.”
“I’m suffering too, you know.”
“Can’t you just move on?”

We say things like: “Curse God and die.” Not because we want to— but because we don’t know how to live through what hurts this much.

Oops… I Am Like Job’s Wife

The suffering I’ve faced has consumed me. I can’t even breathe. I am at the end of my rope.

And when I turn to the one in whom I’ve always found strength, I find them crumbled in sorrow, silent, shaking, surrounded by dust.

My heart breaks. My strength is gone. My sorrow overflows.

I want to speak life, but the words won’t come. Instead, I shout ugly words. I want it all to end because I’m afraid. Afraid that the pain is only beginning. Afraid that I will not endure. Afraid that the joy I once held to is too faint to give me strength now.

I am afraid of fear itself. Afraid of having nothing left. Afraid of falling short of the goal.

I say what I never imagined I’d say. I become what I never thought I’d be. And I realize: I am just like her.

Even Now… He Comes

Even now, Jesus finds us in our brokenness. Even now, He knocks at the door of our hearts.

“Si alguno oye mi voz y me abre la puerta, entraré a él, y cenaré con él, y él conmigo.” (Apocalipsis 3:20)

["If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me" (Revelation 3:20)]

There is no moment when we—His sheep—are without a Shepherd. He is the Door. He is the Way. He is ready for us to leap into His arms.

We are invited to come as we are—wounded, bitter, trembling, undone. To cast all our anxieties on Him. To pour out our hearts before Him. Because He is life.

And because He lives, there is hope for our lives.

When darkness surrounds us, when despair fogs our eyes and suffocates our hope, He invites us to rise in His name— to speak to the bones. To say, “Live.”

The Epilogue of Grace

At the end of Job’s story—after the silence, the pain, the questions, the fire— a miracle happens.

Restoration comes. New life emerges.

God gives Job and his wife new children. New purpose. New breath.

They chose to live again. To love again. To trust again.

Even after walking through death’s valley, they found the valley was not the end.

Even after their darkest hour, life still had the final word.

Their past pain—real as it was—could not rival the life gifted by the Creator. The One who makes all things new.

So when I say, “Oops, I might be like Job’s wife…” I can also say:

“Oops… I am just like her.”

But grace met her too. And grace meets me now.

And by that grace, we will rise. We will speak to the bones. We will live.

Pastor José, his wife Anna, and their four children (Daniela [7], Benjamín [5], and Felipe & Ibrahím [3]) live in Charlotte, NC, where Pastor José is the church planting pastor of Vive Charlotte Church, and serves as the Executive Director of HLI. Pastor José has also started and helps run a non-profit organization for immigrants in Charlotte, Cities of Refuge. He has started the ministry of Multiplicadores, and has helped to train leaders in Charlotte, Houston, Virginia, Colombia, El Salvador, Bolivia, Mexico, throughout the US, and across the globe.

Please consider giving to HLI, that the Lord may continue multiplying the resources for the training, encouragement, renewal, and multiplication of new leaders in and for the Hispanic-American context, and even beyond.