There is a bravery and a trust in the true God, the Almighty Jealous God, here that we ignore to our shame…
There is a sandal at my feet. It took all of my mental faculties to focus my blurry vision and deduce the fact that it is a sandal: my eyes are shrieking to me, crying and begging to be gouged out.
They don’t want to look.
But they do. There is no choice.
The omnipotent violent hand of God has been here. As far as I can see, there is destruction. My home is strewn across the plain in pieces. My ears ring from the sound of the wind and the thunder. Blood splatters the burnt ground. Smoke, everywhere there is smoke. Blackened remains of thousands of sheep dot the landscape. Our other livestock surround me: thousands of animals as far as the eye can see, dead, bloody, still. The smell…I have vomited more than I knew was possible. My face is covered with tears and sand. I close my eyes again…I just can’t…
But I have to…there are people…Oh, dear God…
I see my servants, my precious dear servants, my friends, all of them, dead nearby. Every. One. Of. Them. I am running now, like some wild animal unleashed. I think I might be screaming. My mind is beginning to process these awful pictures. I must find my family. Where is my husband? Where are my… no … No. NO!
Her small ear is hanging from her soft head like a deep red jewel. Her almond eyes are open, and her expression is one of abject terror. I have found my youngest child, my daughter, and she ..is…dead.
I carry her back to where the tents of our home had been ten minutes ago. I set her gently on the only thing I can find: a stone we used for a bench. I nearly trip over my the body of one of my sons as I turn around. He is dead.
I walk through my worst nightmare in a daze. The bodies of all ten my children now rest near a deep cave. Carrying their bodies has nearly broken me: my arms are weary, my feet are bloody and raw. My chest is heavy with sorrow and milk that I will never get to give. Blood spills freely from the opened skin of my knees. I scour the ground for pieces of fabric with which to make their shrouds. The sun has fled, the moon appeared, and fled as well. For some odd reason, the sun has come up again. I want it dark. God, make it dark… I do not want to see this.
I have not seen my husband anywhere. I am terrified he is gone.
I overhear him weeping hours later. He’s alive! I run to him, and then stand back, aghast. His body is wracked with boils. I have no herbs, no oils-they are destroyed like everything else. I am powerless to ease his pain. He looks at me, and says through his tears, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
That’s it? That’s his words of comfort? That’s all he has to say? I’m furious suddenly, and I can’t contain my words. They burst from my hot heart like fire: “Why don’t you just curse God and die?” I say. I turn, and return to the bodies of my beautiful children. I place them in the sepulcher. Alone.
He doesn’t speak to me now. No one does. I have let my hair go wild, I walk around like a rabid dog. I think I’m talking to myself, or maybe I’m talking to my kids. Sometimes I don’t speak for days on end. I haven’t slept in weeks. I know I have gone mad. I don’t care.
I hear Job talking to his friends. I sometimes stand behind the door where they can’t see. I am so thankful he’s alive. I love that man so much, I just need to hear his voice sometimes. It lets me know God has not completely abandoned me. Sometimes, he stares at me, but he’s scared to say anything. His patience is a gentle balm. His wounds are beginning to heal. Every now and then, he speaks to me sometimes. His voice is gentle.
I saw a child today. I couldn’t stop crying.
The tents have been replaced. My cooking tent is beautiful, but I can’t enter it: it’s too quiet, and there are no children to prepare meals for. The fields are green again. There are new flocks. The ewes will be born soon. Job asked me what I thought about having another child. I couldn’t speak. I ran out of the tent weeping. That was three days ago.
I am sitting on the side of the well drawing water watching this child. He came with his family and their flocks, and it’s plain they have been traveling for many days. “Careful, ” his mother says, “He’ll talk your ear off if you let him. How many sons do you have?”
The comment jars me: all I can see is my dead daughter’s soft bloody ear.
“Ma’am? Are you all right?”
“Yes,” I lie.
How many sons do I have? Seven? None? I don’t know. I look away, toward the caves where they lay. Are they still my sons if God took them back? Oh God, I miss my boys. And my girls, my sweet girls with their beautiful ears…
I will go in to Job tonight. Dear God, please give me one more chance. Let me give my husband another son…