We talk a lot about Job—his strength, his suffering, his unwavering faith. And rightly so. His story is one of endurance, pain, and deep spiritual wrestling. But lately, I’ve found my heart turning toward someone else in that story. Someone often dismissed. Someone whose pain rarely gets a second glance.

Job’s wife.

She’s barely mentioned. And when she is, it’s not flattering: “Curse God and die.” That one sentence. That one outburst. That’s what she’s remembered for.

But what if we’ve misunderstood her?

She lost everything too. Her children—all of them. Her home. Her livelihood. Her place in society. Her security. And now her husband—her partner, her strength—is a shell of himself, sitting in ashes, covered in sores, scraping his skin with broken pottery. She’s watching him fade before her eyes.

She didn’t get the heavenly backstory. No glimpse behind the curtain. No divine explanation. Just devastation.

And in her rawest moment, she speaks words we’re quick to judge. But I wonder… what if her words weren’t rebellion, but desperation? What if they weren’t faithless, but the kind of soul-deep grief that says, “How much more can we take?”

As a mom, my heart breaks for her. To bury one child is unbearable. To bury all your children? There are no words. Of course she was angry. Of course she was broken. Of course she was tired.

But here’s what gets me most: she stayed. We know Job was later blessed with ten more children. That means she endured. She survived the sorrow. She kept showing up. She may have screamed in the middle, but she stood in the end.

And maybe that’s what faith looks like sometimes.

Not clean. Not eloquent. Not even hopeful all the time.

Sometimes faith looks like staying when all you want to do is run. Like speaking from the edge but not walking away. Like not having the words to pray but refusing to leave the presence of God.

Job’s wife may not be remembered for her wisdom. But she should be remembered for her humanity. Her grief. Her courage. Her quiet endurance. And for all of us who’ve ever wanted to scream in the middle of the story—we can see ourselves in her. And we can trust that God does, too.

To the woman holding on by a thread, who’s walked through loss, who’s been misunderstood in her pain—you are not forgotten. You are not faithless. You are seen. And you are still here.

And sometimes, that is faith enough.