Tag Archives: Job

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The God who Restores You

Waking up from surgery comes slowly. At first you hear voices chit-chatting, but it seems like conversations you hear when waking from a nap on the beach. It’s just background noise, not strong enough to rouse you from your sleep. Then some jarring word catches you as your being rolled into recovery, a word like “partial gastrectomy,” in my case, and you think “Oh. I’m hearing voices. My surgery must be over. My surgery is over! What did they do to me? I think I better wake up.”

Waking up was quite alarming to be honest, but surgery was successful, and an answer to many prayers. The following three days were hard, as I was in that zone where doing something like sitting up to take a sip of water is exhausting, not just because of pain, but also because of nausea and dizziness every time I moved, or did something like- you know, look at an object. So those days were a blur. We had only intended for my husband stay the night with me the first night, but he stayed for three, and deserves a medal for keeping company with a person who couldn’t speak more than two sentences at a time for three days, in a tiny corner room with no window.

But, day four came. It had its challenges, but the worst had passed, and to my satisfaction they moved me to a room with a window. My husband could go home to see our kids, and my head was finally clear enough to look at my bible. I decided to turn to the last chapter of Job, and it was one of those moments where you think maybe your bible will start glowing or something, because every word is impacting your heart in the best possible way. Continue reading

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Job’s Dark Response

It’s been awhile since I wrote one of my lengthier poems, Job: A Champion of Faith by Grace. I read it again recently and found myself turning back to this great book of the bible. Once again, I was amazed by Job’s response in chapter three. It is so dark, so utterly sorrowful and desperate. Why am I amazed? I don’t think it is because his response is strange. It isn’t strange. In fact, it is kind of what you might expect from a man whose property, herds, servants, and children were just lost and destroyed to two sets of violent raiders, fire from heaven, and wind strong enough to collapse a house.

And then, as if his pain wasn’t great enough, he was smote with “sore boils from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head (Job 2:7).”

I mean, this scenario is insane. I would write more about it, but since I already have in the poem and here I will let that suffice. I just wanted to zero in on chapter three.

After seven days and seven nights of silence, and pain which made him unrecognizable to his friends, he finally opens his mouth and starts by cursing the day of his birth. He wishes he had died as a stillborn child, or been miscarried and discarded. The imagery here is graphic and disturbing. He believes that to have died and been at rest would have been better for him than to have lived and suffered this excessive loss.

Then he asks “Why?” as most people who find themselves in suffering do. “Why is light given to him who suffers (Job 3:20)?”

But it was the last three verses of the chapter that stood out to me the most recently.

Job 3:24-26 “For my groaning comes at the sight of my food, and my cries pour out like water. For what I fear comes upon me, and what I dread befalls me. I am not at ease, nor am I quiet, and I am not at rest, but turmoil comes.”

Try that out as a Facebook status.

I’m being cheeky of course, but how comfortable are you with those verses? How would you respond if a friend said this to you? Picture a person too grieved to eat their food, too distraught to sleep, who cannot be quiet, but cries out loud about their woe? Someone who says “there is no rest in me. I have no peace. I am undone.” Continue reading

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You Are Never Doing Nothing

If for some reason you are ever rendered incapable of doing much of anything, you will likely know the insecurity and restlessness that goes with it.

Insecure

Insecurity, because as people we have so much of our perceived worth wrapped up in what we do. Our capabilities, responsibilities, and hobbies are what make us who we are. When we are no longer able to take on those things, we are left with little left to talk about, and find it painfully difficult to relate with those who are busy doing things.

You have a sense that you are existing more than living, and that is an incredibly difficult feeling. I wrote last year of this experience:

And some had easy laughter
And a carefree kind of sway,
They flittered and they fluttered,
Humming through the day.

“What have I to offer?”
The bruised reed said
From the ground,
“The glory’s gone over my head
But I am sinking down.
Up above the light is shining,
Sweet perfume fills the air,
But down here is decaying,
And an awful load of care.”

There is a potentially crippling sense that because you are not accomplishing things you are not valuable, nor are you even interesting.

Restless

I say restless, because we are used to doing things and being busy, and when life becomes slow and monotonous, all the hours rolling into one, it is easy to be anxious. But a sadder thing happens when you are stuck in that place for a long period of time. You accept your current reality and even if you are able to hope for improvement, when that hope is a long way off (even weeks or months), it is a dreadful wait. You begin to look forward to nothing more than going to sleep at night, and perhaps, if things are particularly bad, even night does not bring relief. Continue reading

The Day of Death is Better

How would we live if we really believed God alone was our portion in life and in death?

Much of my time the last several months has been spent near those who are dying, and their loved ones. In heartache and pain I have witnessed this, yet it has done much spiritual good for my soul.

Death is a reality that we don’t often like to consider. In our minds, we set up our lives as if they are permanent. We don’t want to face death- not our own, and not the death of those we love. Continue reading