Life Is Beautiful: Finding Grace in the Midst of Suffering
What a Holocaust story, an unsung hero, and the cross teach us about finding beauty in brokenness.
Several decades ago, there was a film that captured the hearts of millions: Life Is Beautiful. If you’ve seen it, you probably remember its star and director, Roberto Benigni, joyfully leaping over seats at the Academy Awards to accept his Oscar. His exuberance was unforgettable:
But the story within the film is even more unforgettable. It portrays the horrors of the Holocaust through the eyes of a father and his young son sent to a concentration camp. To shield his son from despair, the father transforms their grim reality into a kind of “game.” He convinces his child that everything happening around them is part of an elaborate contest, where the ultimate prize is a real tank.
Even amid brutality, the father’s love became a creative force, turning unbearable suffering into moments of laughter. He didn’t deny the horror—he bore it fully—but he tried to carry hope for his son. In the end, the father does not survive, but his son lives. And years later, the grown child tells the story, remembering how love helped him endure the unendurable.
This film reminds us that even in the darkest places, beauty can flicker like a fragile flame.
“Life Is Beautiful”… Even Here
I recently came across the writings of Etty Hillesum, a young Jewish woman who lived during the Holocaust. Unlike Anne Frank, Etty was older when the war began, yet her words are just as piercing:
Life is beautiful. And I believe in God. And I want to be there right in the thick of what people call “horror” and still be able to say: Life is beautiful...I don’t think I have nerves of steel—far from it—but I can certainly stand up to things. I’m not afraid to look suffering straight in the eyes.”
What strikes me about Etty’s words is their raw courage. She doesn’t gloss over pain. She doesn’t sugarcoat reality. Instead, she looks suffering straight in the eyes and still insists: life is beautiful.
It’s a paradox we often resist. We want either to deny suffering or drown in it. But Etty suggests the middle way: acknowledging pain without being consumed by it.
The Wounds We Bear—and the Beauty They Conceal
It is tempting to glaze over our deeper wounds, to silence grief with hollow reassurances like “Everything happens for a reason.” But true hope does not bypass suffering—it walks through it.
Even Christ didn’t ignore the agony of the cross. He didn’t pretend everything was fine. He felt every nail, every thorn, every betrayal. Yet, in the midst of pain, He forgave. He consoled the thief beside Him with the promise of paradise. He trusted that, somehow, love would have the final word.
We are called to do the same: to name our wounds, to grieve when we need to, and to resist the temptation to wallow or seek pity. Instead, we can choose to stand in the thick of what others call horror and whisper: life is still beautiful.
Refined by the Fire
Suffering is a crucible. It burns, but it also refines. In the ashes of what we’ve lost, something stronger and more luminous can emerge.
That doesn’t mean pretending pain is good. It also doesn’t mean asking God for more pain. It means allowing pain to deepen us without hardening us, to carve out space for compassion, wisdom, and grace.
And maybe that’s what beauty really is—not perfection, but resilience. Not a life without scars, but a life transformed because of them.
So today, if you find yourself in the midst of something hard, remember Etty’s words. Remember the father who made his son laugh in a death camp. Remember the Christ who turned the cross into a doorway.
Even here—especially here—life can still be beautiful.