“Life doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints…”

Does life discriminate?

I know it’s a line from Aaron Burr in Hamilton, but sometimes, doesn’t it feel painfully true? Like life’s a bulldozer, plowing through good and bad alike. It takes and takes and takes.

Pain seems indiscriminate. It hits the faithful and the faithless. The righteous and the reckless.

But is happiness the same? Is contentment random, or do we have to learn it?

Disappointment seems to find everyone. But what about fortitude? Is that handed out like rain, or forged in the fires we’d rather avoid?

These are the questions that churn in my chest. And I wonder how many of us feel this same tension:

• How do I turn my plight into my reason to keep fighting?
• What happens when I’ve fought so long that I’m too tired to keep going?
• What do I say when people toss me solutions—“try this, try that”—and my heart whispers, I already have?

When we’re in the depths, people want to diagnose our suffering, like Job’s friends. Others ask, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

But God’s answer is so different:

“Neither this man nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him.” (John 9:3)

And in Job, when the questions grow too fierce, God finally thunders back:

“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” (Job 38:4)

It’s a holy reminder that we’re not God. We don’t see the entire tapestry. We feel the threads. The knots. The snags. But not the whole design.

So is life indiscriminate—or is it ruled by authority?

The answer, I think, is… both.

God does allow the rain to fall on the just and the unjust (Matthew 5:45). Suffering touches every life. But our faith tells us that nothing—no joy, no sorrow—is meaningless. Everything is permitted under the gaze of a loving God.

We may not understand the “why.” But we trust that He wastes nothing. Not our tears. Not our questions. Not even the moments when we feel trampled by life’s bulldozer.

Fortitude isn’t random. It’s a virtue grown through grace and grit.

Happiness? It’s not random either. The world tells us happiness comes from having pain removed. But true Christian joy comes even in the presence of pain—because Christ is there.

So yes—life takes. It rains. It sometimes feels merciless.

But the flip side of Aaron Burr’s lament is the quiet conviction:

“If there’s a reason I’m still alive… then I’m willing to wait for it.”

That’s the soil of hope.

In Catholic faith, we call this redemptive suffering—the belief that our suffering can be united to Christ’s and transformed into something that brings grace to the world. Even if no one else sees it.

It’s not about earning love through suffering. It’s about discovering that God is so close in the storm, suffering with us, turning the bulldozer into a tool for tilling new ground.

If you’re in that place where it’s raining and you feel flattened, remember:

• God is not indifferent.
• My suffering has meaning, even when unseen.
• Fortitude can grow in me—even when I feel weak.
• Happiness can coexist with pain, because joy is rooted in Christ.

So we keep asking the hard questions. And we keep fighting, even when we’re tired. Because if we’re here, still breathing, there is a reason.

And in the words of Saint Paul:

“For this momentary light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.” (2 Corinthians 4:17)

May we cling to that hope. May we trust the Author of our story—even when we can’t see the next page.

---

If this post spoke to you…

Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.

---

Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me

---

Don’t Miss a Post

Stories of faith, motherhood, and becoming—delivered straight to your inbox.