A Place to Hold Tomorrow: A Eulogy for Sarah Montgomery

My friend Sarah died this week, and I am so sad that I will be out of town on the day of her funeral. But I can write about her here. My words won’t be enough, but that’s OK because Sarah lived a bold story with her own words, she carved out a deep life with her own hands. Still, I will attempt to share what Sarah has taught me, and how my life is bigger for having intersected hers.

I first bonded with Sarah over decaf coffee at Starbucks one evening as we swapped stories of broken bodies and wrestling with God. (I don’t pretend that my type1 diabetes compares to the medical challenges she had already gone through with cancer, but Sarah would always make you feel like your pain was just as valid as hers.) It took us a few false starts before we could actually meet up; she had doctor visits; I had germs she needed to avoid; we had to sync up our schedules around the obstacles of illness from the very beginning.

But when we met, she said she appreciated that I shared my medical story in a sermon- that I was honest about the fear and pain in uncertainty- that I didn’t pretend that faith meant never struggling with God or wondering why He didn’t seem to answer. I think she needed to know that all her feelings and fears were valid, that her doubts and struggles were OK. She needed to know someone else had prayed for healing, had wondered where God was, and still held onto faith in a gracious God.

Yet Sarah taught me far more about finding faith in that uncertainty and wrestling than I ever preached to her.

In our text exchanges, chats after church, or the few beautiful meetups we had when our schedules aligned, Sarah was not one to pretend. She was honest about the discouragement of another hard doctor’s appointment, the weariness of recovering from yet another round of childhood vaccinations that had been wiped out by chemo, the challenges of living out relationships or planning for a beautiful future when you have a giant medical question mark hanging over you like an ominous cloud. She was honest about the fear and the longing to be whole. She was honest about the prayers that seemed to go unanswered. And yet she kept praying. And yet she kept showing up to church. And yet she kept sending songs and books to root me in faith.

Her story reminds me of one of my favorite people from the Bible, John the Baptist. He had the most profound and unique faith, but when he was stuck in prison, he suddenly had this panic about whether Jesus really was who He said He was. Would the Jesus who came to heal and free and save really leave his own cousin, the one who paved a way for Jesus, stuck in jail? Would he really let that cousin be beheaded? When John died, and when Sarah died, for a moment, Jesus seemed cruel, death seemed to mock us, and hopelessness seemed to be the forecast for the future.

I was in the dressing room at Marshall’s this week, and noticed that they have different hooks for you to hang your clothes. Of course, they don’t want you to say “no” to buying anything, so their hooks read: “Possibly”, “Definitely” and “Tomorrow.” But the hook that holds tomorrow was simply gone.

I suppose that’s the best way to describe how Sarah’s death felt for a moment- like the wind got knocked out of me- like I had to rethink everything I believe in as I sometimes do- like for a moment, losing her felt like proof that there was no place to hang tomorrow on, no screws strong enough to hold it, no hook at all. Like John, I had to ask Jesus all over again- are you really stronger than death? Are you really good? How many times can death win before we stop believing in resurrection at all?

But the truth is that Sarah taught me about a more powerful resurrection long before she died. Precisely because Sarah was so honest about her pain, her obvious joy and encouragement to others was a very real sign that God’s love and Kingdom are present and stronger than any darkness we face. The very grace and hope with which she approached the world daily defied death. From her choice to see God’s goodness where most people would only see desolation, to her intentional decision to see and love others when she could so easily (and justifiably) been completely absorbed in her own pain and suffering, Sarah made death seem small somehow.

Though she may not have had children of her own, Sarah loved like she did. I watched her take other children under her wing, making them feel seen and valued. Resurrection love. Though she had to avoid germs to protect her weak immune system, she’d show up with a mask and a big heart, whenever she could. Resurrection perseverance. Though she had a million doctor’s appointments and struggles to navigate, her last text to me was a message congratulating me on the adoption of our fourth child. Resurrection presence. In the midst of her own health journey, she found ways to inspire others with TikTok dances and positive posts on IG. Resurrection joy.

She even shared her story at Hope of surprising flourishing- she shared the places where she had found God in hospital rooms and nurses, in tiny graces in the MIDST of everything seemingly falling apart. Sarah lived as though death were not the end; she embodied how a tomb can be a womb, how the greatest trials can produce the most unthinkable hope, how a seed that is buried deep in the earth tells a story of vibrant colors and life beyond the grave.

You might say that Sarah planted seeds wherever she went– seeds of encouragement, of determination, of generosity, of hope, of love. Sarah planted seeds in my life, calling me to see higher, hope tighter, wrestle longer, and love greater.

Sarah planted resurrection seeds, and they have been growing and blooming all along. And they will continue to bloom in vibrant colors, in faithful witness to God, in hospital rooms where those who knew her continue to fight their own battles, and over dinner tables where her words and presence are remembered, and within the community of Hope Church where her story calls us all to see unexpected flourishing, calls us to see a Kingdom that she was at home in long before she crossed from this world to the next.

It turns out, Sarah’s death is so painful because her life was so unquenchable. Her loss is so surprising because she pointed so clearly to life that never ends. Sarah forces me even today to look at death in a new way, to believe that a life like hers is hardly over, but has just begun in many ways. She invites me to imagine her dancing still, her joy unstoppable now, her weariness over, her faith (even in the wrestling) now sight. This doesn’t mean her death is easy; I don’t mean to trivialize her life by downplaying anyone’s sorrow, doubt, fears or grief over her loss. Jesus sits in death with us, knows its ache, weeps with us, reminds us that it was never the design. Sarah, better than anyone, would leave space for you to hold grief and questions too.

Yet I have to give Sarah credit for the story her life spoke so clearly:

Sarah, in her life and death, reminds all of us that there is a sturdy place to hang our tomorrow on. There’s a Resurrection in Jesus that no one can steal, kill, destroy, or remove.

My prayer is that I, that we, honor her life not only by letting the defiant blooms of faith that she planted in us become a testimony of beauty, of goodness, of God, but that we would also plant our own Sarah seeds, our own resurrection seeds. That even in our own struggles and triumphs, joys and sorrows, others would find a stronger resurrection, a place to test whether our hope really is strong enough to hold tomorrow, however heavy it may be.