Where Was Job's Wife?

 I've been in a tremendous hole for nearly a month. Sometimes life overwhelms me and I have a meltdown. I've always had a habit of overthinking a problem, but Jerry was the anchor that sort of balanced me. He couldn't always fix the problem, but an anchor is really just to stabilize the boat and keep it from drifting out to sea. He kept the boat from rocking so much.

After he died, I lost all sense of stability. In fact, it felt like I was tossed into a washing machine. My tendency to over think situations escalated to the point I'd lose my self control. I had to ask people for help, something I never did in my entire life. Not ever. Yet, there I was, not able to resolve simple problems because I couldn't think clearly. I couldn't focus. The fibromyalgia brain fog added to the chaos. 

These days, I'm not as unstable as I was, but I'm never going to be who I was before Jerry died. That part of me died with him. Death of a spouse is the death of two people. One of them remains, but 50% of their personality is simply destroyed. They'll recover to some degree, but they'll never be who they were and people who know them well will see it. They won't understand, but they'll see it. I don't sing anymore. I talk too much. I avoid most social events because I don't enjoy sitting in a corner alone. I can't cope with trauma at all. I hate who this made me, what it did to my life, but I can't undo it. So it gets dark sometimes.

So, for the last several months, I've been in a dark place. I can't describe this any way other than they're cold, dark, and devastatingly lonely. One has a tendency to reach out to people. The tendency of those people you reach out to, is to push you away. Really. I mean, didn't you realize that is why people commit suicide so often? They were unseen suffers whose desperation results in people shoving them aside. The excess talking, the neediness all reflect a soul clutching for an anchor for just a few minutes. 

It's hell. Oh, not for you. For them.

When I get in these places, I do a lot of praying. I become very unsociable to protect other people from the fallout. I crawl into my hole and pull the dirt in over me. For me, this is a normal reaction. 

I've tried to overcome this the last several years. And I really wanted to go to church. I needed to go to church! So, I went despite this enveloping darkness.

 Of course, people always think you're in physical pain at these times, and because most folks are shallow, they won't delve too deep. It's easy to let them think what they think. They don't really want to hear about what is really bothering another person. They don't actually see you after the first three minutes. 

I struggled to listen to the lesson during Sunday School. I like the fella who was teaching. He's good. But I was surprised when, out of the blue, a question popped into my head. I'll take you with me for this. 

"Where was Job's wife?" 

He's not teaching about Job. 

No, but where was she?

Job's wife? Well...I guess she was home.  

Sure she was. She was nagging Job, remember?

Yeah, I remember........ wait. She's mentioned one time. I think. They say she told Job to curse God and die.

Yes. That's her. In sermons, they say all he had left was a nagging wife. In fact, she's never named. 

OK. That's harsh.

But where was she?

I don't know.

Well, where was Job?

Oh, he was sitting in an ash heap scratching his sores and moaning with his friends. 

He was. The writer gives it a less judgemental slant, of course.

Of course he does.

Let me tell you about Job's wife. You'll probably recognize her.

I....

Job's wife was in her tent. She was cleaning up the dishes, making beds, washing clothes, cooking a meal for the two of them. That's what was expected of her. Job had lost everything. But Job's wife lost everything she helped him build. She lost her babies; she lost any hope of grandchildren. In her society, this would have been a death blow to any woman. She lost crops, flocks, and children. Job's wife had nothing left, not even her husband. He's sitting in an ash heap scraping his sores and complaining to his comforters. 

The grief she felt was soul crushing and there is no evidence she had comforters, not even the man she'd given her life to, the man she'd born and reared children for, the man she cooked, cleaned, and waited on for decades. He had no time for her. He was suffering. 

"Curse God and die!" she screamed at Job.

"You speak like a foolish child!" he yelled back.

But she wasn't a fool, and she wasn't a child. She was a woman whose whole life was crushed out of existence. As a male, Job could start over. He could build again, get more crops and flocks. He could marry a younger woman and father a new family. But Job's wife... she lost everything that gave her life meaning. Her identity was stripped from her the moment those children died. And she could not start over. 

But the story says God blessed Job, and he had more than he had in the beginning. 

But where was Job's wife?

It doesn't mention her again. 

No it doesn't. 

So ... where was Job's wife?

She was burying her babies. She was cleaning up the mess, cooking the meals, serving Job's comforters wine and cheese, and burying her babies. Job's wife was grieving alone, and she was screaming to die.

Oh. Oh no. 

.............

Job's wife disappeared. There is no indication in the story that Job's wife had more children. No mention of their relationship or of her being blessed. Job was blessed. Where was Job's wife?

The writer neglected to tell us. Although, I think you and I know. You probably understand Job's wife in a way no one else can unless they've lived it.

Yes. 

Why do they do this to us? They make us invisible. It is as if we don't matter. No one sees us. No one hears us. We mustn't make anyone uncomfortable. We're not to draw attention to our pain. Never speak of it. We'll "get over it". We're fools if we don't. No wonder she screamed at him. 

You don't get over it. And you're not fools. But you're going to be all right.

Will I? It hurts. Even now. 

I know. But I see you. l hear you. And you can always talk to me. 

Surely someone reached out to Job's wife? Surely .....

Didn't they?

#ConversationsWithHim

 

Would You Like a Menu?

I never remember missing an Easter Sunday in church. I'm sure somewhere in my travels I have, but I can't remember it. Today I missed church.  Of course, I can watch the service online but today I missed even that. For several weeks, I've been waking up in the wee hours of the morning with excruciating cramps in my calves. I live alone in a stone house, so my screams didn't disturb the neighbors. 

Walking is painful. It is the same feeling as a pulled muscle. Not since I was pregnant with Michael have I had leg cramps this bad. That was 42 years ago. Back then, I learned in Lamaze classes how to "break" a cramp. You stretch in the opposite direction of the cramp. If your foot goes down, you pull it up. Only, these cramps won't let me. I have to get out of bed and put my foot down, and that stops it. I'm left with a very painful calf muscle and have to hobble down the hallway. 

For three hours, I sat in my chair and kept telling myself I'd go to church at 11. I didn't. So, I would go to the noon service. Each time I got up to dress, I had to deal with the sore calves and finally just gave up. It hurt and depressed me. 

I know today is the day we remember the price Jesus paid for our freedom, our salvation. He allowed himself to be crucified to pay the penalty for our sins on our behalf. My pain seems unimportant compared to what he endured. I live with constant pain and still can't imagine the horror of his. How dare I miss church for such a little pain? 

I remember a place in the Bible where it says "he was wounded for our transgressions". In another, "by his stripes, we are healed." His pain had a purpose. And he agreed to be wounded for the purpose. He had a choice. He endured the pain because he had a plan.

There is no purpose for my pain. It doesn't make me a better person. I don't magically become more sensitive, compassionate, or understanding. I didn't agree to feel pain, to have rheumatoid arthritis, fibromyalgia, and whatever else this may be. No one asked me. No one gave me a menu to pick the pain I wanted. I wanted none of this. 

This is a consequence of my genetics. I can't fix it or change it. My pain is a consequence of a fallen world that corrupted my DNA. Someone else made the choice for me. They chose unwisely. 

So, there are days I can't walk well or put on a blouse or brush my hair without pain. I can't focus on what you're saying, let alone listen to a long sermon. I love my pastor's preaching and teaching. When I have to exert more effort to listen, I become frustrated and exhausted. So, I stay home. Whether I go or stay, I'll experience frustration and depression because my body has robbed me of the things I enjoy once again. There is no purpose in that. 

This isn't much of a praise post, is it? I don't feel like praise today. I want to curl up and cover my head.  But I didn't. Instead, I read my Bible and praised in the pain. There is a purpose in that.  

The next time you're suffering from some malady, don't beat yourself up if you can't get to church. And don't let others beat you up for it either. If someone makes you feel bad because you didn't go to church, give them a menu and ask them to pick their pain. 

And praise God anyway.