Servant of God – Job.
The life of the servant restored –
His curse lifted,
Life after his trials, blessed.
But did he never have a dark moment after?
Did he wake in the middle of the night,
Remembering the silence of his friends
And then their accusations?
Did he feel the heat and ease of his wife’s body
Next to him and then remember her words
“Turn and Die”?
These are my Job days.
Twenty-first century Job days.
The intolerant man at the library.
My frightened son.
A new passion encumbered by suspicion
Neither one of us deserves.
Is the outstretched hand just another prison?
These are my Job days,
My memory lesson days.
God has arrived and the whirlwind has subsided.
The graves have sunk to level ground
The children play not far afield.
I smile, I laugh, I learn and teach,
But wonder did Job ever stop to pause, as I do,
Over bright meadows, golden harvests, and
Soft cold winter nights, colder now somehow.
Did Job long for the soft touch of rest and repose and
Stare into darkness instead?
Did he scrape the scars of the sores God allowed?
Does the servant never cower now?
These are my Job days.
Old enough to let go, endure the ache of regret
But not old enough to forget.
God’s quiet voice echoes in my head.
He always answers with a question.
His favorite, “Were you there?”
For my life, yes, I was there.
And like Job, no human touch,
No smile, no kind expression means sincere connection.
Every man for himself, every fresh looking whore too,
Every child, every demanding parent, every well meaning
Friend sinks to memory, a crashing memory of sickness, disease,
Catastrophe, the blank stare of despondency
During these Job days.
As pencil scrapes paper and cadence settles in
I’m hiding in my car, cold feet, aching hands.
No leaves on the trees a beautiful blue sky
People go by. Did Job have these days?
Did Job remember his own cry for justice?
Did the memory of his own staunch defense
And belief in his innocence weary and slacken his mind?
What does restored mean?
That we’ve learned well to handle the emotions and
Trials of catastrophe, disease, death –
Yet a slighted touch, a cross word, a moment’s silence
Too long between lovers,
Crashes the sky and breaks the heart.
These are the scars that remain
And the servant’s heart has yet to forget.
These are my Job days.
Photo by ginger juel on Unsplash