Job’s Wife: The Untold Story of Grief

April 23, 2020 - By Becky Emerick

Job’s Wife: The Untold Story of Grief

April 23, 2020

By Becky Emerick

If you were abandoned in a cave in the center of the earth, with layers of dirt packed solidly above for miles and miles, the darkness of your prison would not compare to the black empty void that became my life on that horrendous day: The day I died. It wasn’t a physical death, though at times I wished it were so, but it was a finality so fierce that the piercing sting of a blade would have been a relief from the crushing weight of despair.

When I take the time to reach back into the vagueness of my memory, I can recall a brightness that flooded every moment of my life, prior to that day. I see sunshine and hear peals of laughter and smell fresh bread baking in the ovens. I am held in an embrace and surrounded with joy, and if I were pressed to name the emotion, it would be this one word: Hope. I was full of hope. Naïve, passionate, heart-filled hope.

I wish you could have seen us in those days. The merriment was tangibly felt when you turned onto the lane that led through our property to our estate, as though an energy pulsed out of our life together, sparked by love and fed by endless joy. Our children reveled in the affection and care given by their doting father.

I know you’ve heard Job’s story, but I want you to know the man. The tower. The rock. We married younger than most in our community, but our match must have been destined by God Himself. While most in Uz were dabbling in pantheism and witchcraft, our families were both fiercely devoted to the God of Creation as passed down faithfully from generation to generation. When we were first introduced, he spoke to me of diligence and sacrifice, bemoaning the follies of idolatry and sorcery. I whole-heartedly agreed. As soon as he discerned my passion, a smile broke naturally across his face, and he looked deeply into my heart as though I was being seen for the first time. He took my hand, and my future became his.

I remember the day we stood at the edge of our fields, his strong arm around my slender shoulders, optimism filling our imaginations for the life that lay ahead of us. I took a selfish moment to stare, unashamedly, at his chiseled face, bold eyebrows, and dark, wind-swept hair. This man was mine, God be praised! My stomach fluttered again, and I pressed closer into his side. We were just a couple of kids, ready to take our place in the uncharted world. We had little to our name, but what we had, we cherished and tended and grew. As the saying goes, “All hard work brings a profit,” and we proved the old sages right.

The years flew as, one by one, we added the laughter of children to our quiet little home. I had one life-consuming purpose: to care for and raise these little men and woman to love God and respect their father. It wasn’t a difficult task. They treasured their dates with him in the fields. He patiently explained the faithfulness of God as the spring rains fell. He showed the tenderness of our Creator as he held them up on his shoulders to spy on a bird’s nest of eggs. He never let a moment pass to explain the intricacies of a life of faith in our one true God. We had seven thriving sons and three charming daughters. They were my world. My everything. I lived to meet all their needs, even before they even knew they had them.

We added rooms, servants, fields, livestock, more rooms, more servants, more fields, more livestock. More and more and more. As our estate grew, so did the joy that danced in my heart. My husband was honored for his faith, and others in the community grew to trust in our mighty God. Clearly, we were blessed for our faithfulness! I didn’t resent the evenings Job would be out late by the city gate, teaching crowds of men about the days of creation, the sacrifices of Abel, and the wickedness of Cain. I was happily surrounded by the loves of my life – my living treasures – my everything. My life was complete.

We built homes for our children on the estate and gave them land of their own to manage. They loved each other dearly, and weekly they would take a break from their honest labor to celebrate with a lively party. The music, dancing, and wine flowed freely among them and their friends. Job and I were always a welcomed part of the festivities.

I will never forget one special moment of time that occurred the night before the day of evil arrived. We were at Micah’s home – our eldest – for one of their parties. I often worked contentedly behind the scenes with their servants, ensuring that their guests had all their various needs met. When Micah spied me clearing dishes, he called out, “No, mama! Not tonight! Tonight, we celebrate!”

Though I protested, he took me by my hands and brought me into the dance. His siblings cheered their agreement, and we moved vivaciously to the music. I let myself be caught away in the sheer gusto with which we celebrated and spun and dipped and clapped. Our youngest daughter, Eva, encouraged Job to join in near the end, and as we passed each other in the line, I saw the youthfulness of our early days flash in his eyes. The familiar electricity of love coursed through me as our eyes met. I knew in that moment that I was living in my version of heaven, and I never wanted it to end.

The mornings after the parties you would always find me cleaning up while the children slept in. I didn’t want them to have to wake up to a mess. It was always more peaceful when they would rise to an orderly, straightened home. I hummed as I swept off the front step. The red, morning skies warned of a looming storm. I was thankful because the fields could use a good soaking. I only had one more chore before I would head back to my own responsibilities at our estate.

Walking through our nearby pasture, I opened a small gate that held the best of the flock. Just as I was brushing some hay off the wool of a spotless lamb, Job surprised me from behind with a kiss on the cheek.

“Good morning, my treasure.”

His rough beard made me giggle. I blushed. Imagine it: A grown woman, blushing from the affection of her husband. He knew how to make me laugh.

I helped him gather his supplies. He always offered a sacrifice to God at our local altar on behalf of the children after a feast, just in case they had happened to sin sometime during the evening. He was constantly looking out for them, and I loved him even more for it.

Mornings were the busiest time on the estate. I oversaw the household staff in our home as we prepped for the day’s meals. We always ensured that our farm hands were well fed, even to the farthest fields. There was a lot to do! The storm clouds were rolling in, and I could hear a distant rumble of thunder. I was in the middle of giving instructions to a new young woman we had recently employed about closing the shutters tightly in preparation for the storm when a pounding on the door caused me to jump.

“I need to see the master of the house!” His cry was desperate, and he held to the door frame to steady himself. I sent the woman away to fetch water for him and wiped my hands on my apron.

“How can I help you? I am his wife.” I glanced over his shoulder. The rain had begun falling in sheets, flattening the spring flowers.

“My lady—” He took a moment to compose himself with a bow. “I must speak with your husband, immediately.”

“He is in the fields. Which one, I cannot say. Please tell me your news, and I will send a servant with you to find him.” I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach. My jaw tensed as I braced for what was to come.

“The Sabeans. You have heard of them?”

“Yes, yes, raiders from the north. What of them? Are they nearby?” Alarms sounded in my mind.

“Not nearby – they’ve already passed through, my lady, and they raided your pastures. They took the oxen, and the donkeys, and…”

He was nearly out of breath. I had to calm him down. “Alright, I understand. I understand. We’ll gather the servants and chase them down and all will be well.” My servant had returned with water, and I asked him to drink, but he pushed it away.

“No, but don’t you see? They attacked the servants, too. They cut them down with the sword. Only I escaped to tell you.” His throat caught. “I’m the only one left.”

It all started growing clearer. His panic. The terror in his eyes. Oh, the horrible things he’d witnessed that day!

But all was not lost. Job would know what to do. I summoned a young man. “Find Job, quickly. We must act at once.” I watched helplessly as they climbed on horses and galloped away, into the storm. I steadied myself at the table and wiped my brow. “Oh God, help us.”

I was startled out of my prayers with a sharp rap at the door. Without waiting for an appropriate answer, another servant burst in, dripping wet. I recognized him immediately as one of Job’s most faithful overseers.

“Elias!” As I gestured for him to sit down, I recognized the same look of wild fury on his face. Perhaps he had just learned of the Sabeans.

He remained standing. “I must speak to Job at once.” I again urged him to tell me the news. “There’s no way to explain it. The fire of God fell from heaven and burned up the sheep and the servants and consumed them!”

My mind spun, trying to comprehend the news. No, not the sheep! And more servants? All burned? Can this be possible? We’d heard of calamities like lightning fires before, but up until this time, we’d been spared from any destruction. This was horrible – beyond words.

Before I was able to utter a reply, another servant was calling out in the front yard for my husband. I lifted my chin, pulled my head covering tighter to protect from the weather, and strode outside, displaying a strength of character that I didn’t feel inside.

The man bowed low and nearly whispered, “The Chaldeans have attacked.”

I barely heard his explanation. Three raiding groups. Camels. Servants. Gone.

Something snapped me awake from my haze. Our servants were captured. Regardless of the destruction that was falling in torrents, there was still hope. Job could rally the men and attack those blasted Chaldeans, perhaps saving the lives of some of our men. I thought of their families, their children, and I hurried the messengers to Job on our fastest steeds.

The mud was still splashing from their hooves as another man rode up and dismounted before me. He asked me to go inside, to get out of the rain, but I stood my ground. He diverted his gaze and insisted, so I gathered my skirt and led him into our home. The servants immediately sent for towels and blankets, and they stoked the embers to keep me warm. It wasn’t until I was seated by the fire that the man continued.

“My name is Benjamin, and I am the head servant of your son, Master Micah.”

I had seen him on many occasions. Micah always spoke highly of his service. My pulse raced. Oh no, not Micah too.

I can barely remember what he said. It was too much to register.

“Your sons and daughters…” Oh God, no! “A strong wind…” This can’t be happening. I’m sure he told me the details I would need to hear again later. About the storm, and the blasted wind that collapsed the home while my babies slept. All ten of them. Gone, in a moment.

At first, I was silent, staring into the fire. I watched the flame lick the wood, but I didn’t comprehend the damage it was inflicting. Suddenly, as if punched unaware, I bent over and screamed. Fiery tears slashed down my cheeks. In a rash of anger, I pulled at my hair, grasped at my clothes. Claws were tearing into my heart, like talons, ripping and fighting. Scraping. Scratching. Frantic. Pacing.

Was there anyone around me? I didn’t care. If they were, I was blind to them. All I knew was the monster that was clawing at my back, my neck, my head. Then, with another scream, I fell. Numb. Nothing. Blankness and darkness covered my eyes. Something tapped at my brain, trying to rouse me. It was a name.

Job.

I gathered my dress around me and ran outside. The rains had ceased. I ignored the mud that covered my feet as I raced through the fields, constantly scanning for the sight of him. He had to be close. On his way home, maybe? Where was he?

I don’t know how far or how long I searched, but when I spotted a tunic in the distance, flat on the ground, I recognized it immediately. I screamed my heart out of my chest as I ran and then fell upon him, and he rose to meet my embrace.

I wept at the realization that he was alive. Job’s alive! Oh God, thank you! His arms wrapped around me and we sat, a tangled heap on the cold, wet earth. I felt like a child, letting my tears run freely and my sobs rising without restraint.

I don’t remember going home. Days passed. The dark curtains kept the light out of my bedroom. Job continued his duties faithfully as well as my own. When I slept, I dreamed of laughter and joy. In these moments of darkness, I was transported to a different world, where I could see all of their faces, smiling. But then the wickedness of life reminded me of reality, and I would shout to them, reach out, trying to grasp them and not let go – until they were gone, like a vapor, and I awoke. They were a whisp that vanished, leaving my arms empty yet again.

The dark clothes and veil masked my bloodshot eyes. I followed dutifully behind Job as their earthly bodies were laid to rest. It seemed that the funerals never stopped. Our children. The Servants. My life. I went into the grave with them.

That day. The black day. The day I died.

Friends stopped by and urged me to eat. Sweet Ella took my hand and led me outside. I squinted in the harshness of the late afternoon sun, but the heat felt good on my face. Suddenly aware of others, I lifted my veil to cover my hair. Ella squeezed my hand and stepped away, nodding her head toward the side of the yard. Job was sitting on a bench, alone. He was gazing up, and he had a familiar look in his eye.

I sat beside him in silence. He took my hand, and with a glance, I noticed a fresh sign of tears. I traced the lines on his hands. His strong, hard-working hands.

And I knew in that moment – all was not lost.

I had Job.

He put his arm around me and pulled me close. It was like our wedding day – when just he and I set out to start our life. When we had an empty field before us, and an empty house behind us. Like now…

Fresh tears fell hot, and though I tried to push them back, weary of their existence, I couldn’t hold the dam. I shook from the sobs. Job didn’t scold or lecture. Instead, he held me tighter. My rock. My man of faith. I needed his faith in that moment. It was all I had.

How do we move forward when all we’ve lived for is gone?

I breath in and breath out.

“One moment at a time,” Job says, as though reading my mind. “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.”

And I added, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” Then my throat caught, as I remembered all we’d lost.

The sun continued to rise and set, even though I willed it to stop. As I awoke to a new day, my body ached in the most obscure places. Was I losing my mind? Was I getting sick? Job woke with a moan. Was he feeling it too? Perhaps I wasn’t crazy. Maybe it was just the weight of grief, overtaking my bones. His moan increased, so I sat up. He clearly wasn’t well.

Up until then, I’d been idle, and then suddenly, a page turned in the book of my life and I had a new purpose. I had someone to care for, and I went into action.

What was wrong? Where did it hurt? I asked question after question, trying to diagnose the sickness.

“Oh dear God – what is that?” I showed Job the enraged wound that was the source of some of the pain. What is happening? I willed my face to remain neutral and ran for the ointment.

Bandage. Clean. Wrap. More bandages. The boils began to spread, and I kept busy, demanding that no one was to care for him except myself. I brewed teas, applied herbal ointments, and never, not for one second, allowed myself the space to ever stop and think. I made him rest, and I rotated him in his bed to alleviate the pain.

When the local priest came, he confirmed my fears – my husband was unclean.

Seven days alone were prescribed for his treatment. We prepared and purified the guest house, and then we settled him in as comfortably as we could. Seven days, and then he would be well. All would be well.

I searched through our stash of herbs, dismayed to see our plants in disarray. They hadn’t been well cared for during my… well, over the last few weeks. Reluctantly, I prepared for a trip to the market.

That was where I first heard the others, while I was filling a basket with the needed remedies. I was accosted with their judgmental jibes and snake-like gossip. “Job is unclean.” The words caused bile to creep into my throat. I spat. My husband was many things, but he was not unclean. He was righteous. Upright. He was simply sick!

“But he was always so nice,” I heard a woman defend.

“Or so you thought,” the other scoffed. I dared not turn around, exposing who I was. I remained still and strained to listen. “Clearly he’s been wicked. Why else would his god torment him so?”

I gripped my basket to maintain my composure. Who were they to talk so maliciously about my husband? What did they know? I was his wife, and though he was not a sinless man, he strived to live righteously and honorably in front of all!

“Maybe he wasn’t the one who sinned,” the woman offered. I thought I recognized her voice.

“Do you mean his wife? Perhaps…”

“Or maybe they shouldn’t have shut out all the other gods,” a third voice suggested. “Maybe the gods have revolted against them both. Who knows?”

I turned now, unwilling to hear more, ready to confront the slanderers, but they had already turned to leave. It was probably for the better.

When I arrived at the guest house, I knocked gently, not wanting to surprise Job if he was sleeping. When he didn’t answer, I tiptoed in and arranged the new medicine beside his bed.

“Job, dear—” I started, but then dropped the ointment. The bed was empty. Job was gone!

Where is he? Panic flooded my body. I never should have left him! I yanked off the blankets, threw open the curtains, and searched frantically, foolishly, in his room. Where have they taken him?

A boulder fell on my chest as I realized the truth. He had died. They had removed his body. I was too late to say goodbye.

I fell to the ground slowly. “No, no, no!” My fists pounded, but the earth didn’t reply. “God!” I screamed out in desperation. “How dare you! How dare you take my husband!” I stood quickly, fire in my eyes. I was a restless lion, pacing in its cage, throwing whatever my hands could grab a hold of. “Take my stuff. Take my animals and land and every other blasted thing you gave me. Oh God, even take my children!” My hands grabbed desperately at my chest as the yelling gave way to sobbing. I stood, hands outstretched, reaching in desperation to heaven. “I can see them – oh mighty God – laying in your paradise. You’ve shown me their laughter and joy in my dreams. I know they are safe with you, but God…” and at this I couldn’t finish. Not Job. I wouldn’t allow it. I clenched my fist, drawing blood with my nails.

What have I done? How have I sinned? I knew the women at the market were right. This was my fault. Who else was to blame? Not my children. Not Job. It was me. I loved them too much, and I had made God jealous.

This created a new rage in my heart. “How dare you call yourself a God of love? How dare you say you care about any of us at all! You’ve left me here – alone! Are you happy? Are you done yet?”

No longer willing to be contained, I nearly knocked the door off its hinges as I felt the heat of the day blast my face like a furnace. “Take me too!” I called to the empty sky, panting.

It was then that I saw a movement in the distance, just at the end of the horizon. Someone was sitting, arms stretched high.

Job!

“Job! Job!” I screamed, bringing back all the memories of the hellish day, not that long ago. To my horror, I came upon him as he was sitting in the ashes, barely clothed, hands lifted – in worship? My brain clicked on. Worship to who? Is anyone even up there?

My fear of his death was replaced by anger in his complete disregard for his life. All the energy that had been growing in my fears was released on the one I loved most. I let him have it.

“What are you doing out here? In this filth? Do you want to die? Do you want to leave me too?” The words were heavy and deep and came out with a weight that was hard to bear. I had to grab them from the top of my chest, as they were loaded with sobs and fire. “Don’t you love me? You want to leave me? Do you hate me?”

Job had lowered his hands, and his face showed concern mingled with confusion. I had clearly interrupted some special moment for him, and that fueled my hatred.

He tried to speak. “The Lord gives…”

“The Lord? The Lord?” I couldn’t hear it. “Your Lord takes and takes and takes some more. Leaving me alone and bitter and empty. Empty, do you hear me? Can’t you see it? He’s taking you, too! If there is a God – maybe everyone is right. We’ve aroused his anger and now there is no hope!”

“Sit down with me,” Job calmly offered, but I continued my rant.

“What have we done to Him?” I then directed my request to the empty sky, shaking my fists in the air. “What have we ever done to you?”

“We haven’t done anything…”

I whipped around to face him. “How can you say that? Do you still hold onto your integrity? Bless your God – and die!” The words exploded out before I could stop them. But why continue this agony? Job would die, and then I would soon follow, either by God’s hands or my own.

Job slowly lowered his head. My outburst had only furthered his agony. “You speak like the foolish women.” It was like he’d slapped me across the face, and I flinched. “Shall we receive good from God, and not evil?”

My voice steadied, and I coldly replied, “The evil is more than I can take. It is winning. It took my heart to the grave with my children, and now it is taking you too.” For a moment, I considered joining Job on the ground. Perhaps I could still draw a semblance of strength from his faith? No, it wouldn’t be. “I can’t. I can’t worship Him. I can’t even speak to Him. The heavens are iron, and I’m too weak from pounding on their gates.”

Something caught Job’s attention. Three men were walking toward us, friends of ours. I didn’t even cover myself or my head. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered. My dark hair whipped wildly about my face as I stormed silently past them. When I reached the door to our home, I couldn’t enter. It was a tomb of memories I just couldn’t face. I kept walking, through the tree line to the creek that wound around the back. I appreciated the covering of their branches, as though they would hide me from the wrath of God. Wrapping my shawl around my arms, I settled my body down onto the bank. I laid on the dirt, just as I’d found my husband, and I prayed to a God I didn’t love to take me too. “Take me too. I am done. DONE.”

It was dark when the women found me, the wives of them men who’d come to comfort Job. When they discovered my state, they cried out as though I were dead, but Ella touched me, and I stirred. I looked into her eyes. She understood. She lifted me to the house, set me in bed, cleaned me, and dressed me, as though I were a frail child. The others made tea, and I could hear them bustling about. Ella was still by my side as I fell to sleep.

The women remained for a week. They didn’t press for conversation, but their presence was a comfort. Ella insisted I continue to rest and to drink the tame broth she lifted to my lips. I was empty inside. I don’t think I would have had anything to say. The words were gone.

If my story ended there, you’d think my tale a tragic one. My friend, it is. A widow left with nothing but death to dream of. However, just as winter stretches long and threatens to remain forever, Spring eventually blows in the gentle warmth needed to cause what was dead to come alive again.

I did eventually come alive again.

It didn’t happen all at once. As Job healed, he moved back home, and we endured a resigned silence for quite some time, neither of us knowing how to bridge the gap that had been dug between us.

Job had indeed been a righteous man, and the generosity he had so charitably bestowed on our community was heaped back upon him in wave upon wave of gifts. Slowly, the barren life of our estate began to awaken with new hope. Day by day, the gifts kept coming. Oxen. Sheep. Camels. Gold. Seeds to start the fields again. Hired hands who volunteered their time.

I kept to myself, in the house, instructing our new servants in the ways of our home. I moved slower than before, and when my eyes brimmed, others politely redirected their gaze. I didn’t have the heart to join Job at the harvest celebrations or festivals. I would be an embarrassment to him. I intended to mourn forever, and who wanted a grieving woman at their party?

I often relived our final evening together with our children. Oh, the joy and dancing! I tried to hold onto the past for fear of forgetting even a second of their memory. I was never letting them go.

Another winter and another spring. I heard talk from the farmers, that our land which had been torched with fire was richer and more abundant than ever. That Job would be restored to twice his fortune. I hated their words. Let the land rot. I just didn’t care.

It was just after a cool spring rain that I stepped outside and breathed in the heaviness of the damp earth. Job was on the bench, head bowed. I allowed myself a moment to analyze this man who existed on the edges of my life. His hair was streaked with white, and his shoulders were a little lower. My heart was pricked with compassion. I didn’t give myself time to reconsider my actions. I just walked over and sat down on the bench next to him, hands in my lap. He might have rejected me. He might have asked me to leave.

But he took my hand, placed it to his lips, and kissed it. He cradled my chin and waited patiently until my lashes lifted and my wet eyes met his. “I missed you,” he whispered. A tear fell down his cheek and splashed into the ground.

I didn’t look away. I wasn’t expecting the love that I found in his eyes. I wasn’t expecting to be allowed back into his heart, after all that I’d said. After all we’d done and been through. I had resigned myself to being just a servant in his home, roaming the halls like an unwelcomed ghost.

Job loved me.

I think that’s when my faith, which had fallen beneath the earth as a dead seed in late winter, began to push itself out of the dirt to a new life above. There was hope.

I didn’t want to leave Job’s side. I helped him with the planning, the planting, the raking and the hoeing. We recounted stories of our children, young and full of laughter, who had gotten themselves dirty in those very fields, leaving me to clean them when they arrived home. I admired his strength and endurance but also his compassionate care, making sure I was rested and fed.

The most important part of all, however, was the tale he told of a holy moment, back in the dark days, when he spoke with God.

And God spoke back.

Job’s friends had been certain that our calamities were a result of his sin, and so rather than debate any longer about the matter with mortals, he reached out to the only one who knew His heart better than he did. He demanded an answer from God.

He asked, “Why has this happened? Have I lied or deceived anyone? Have I lusted after women? Have I treated servants poorly or dealt unjustly with the poor? Have I refused to help the widows or orphans? Or trusted in money and my wealth? Have I ever left the faith and worshiped the objects that you created? No! This judgement is undeserved.”

Whenever Job then recalled the words of God, whose voice was like a whirlwind, his eyes would shine and he’d look to the sky, as though hearing them afresh.

Who is this that questions my wisdom with such ignorant words? Brace yourself like a man, because I have some questions for you, and you must answer them. Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much. Who determined its dimensions and stretched out the surveying line? What supports its foundations, and who laid its cornerstone as the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy?”

The story went on and on, about the sea, and the stars, and snow on the mountaintops. The lions and the goats, and even the leviathan that swam in the deep, mere pets of our Creator. And after all this, Job said he fell to his face and worshiped. He said, “I am nothing – how could I ever find the answers? I will cover my mouth with my hand. I have said too much already. I have nothing more to say.”

God spoke to Job’s friends too, and apparently it was a pretty scathing rebuke. Rather than revel in his justification, however, my dear husband prayed for them. Imagine that. It’s too much for me to comprehend, and in that moment, Job’s heart was healed. No longer broken by loss and bitterness, he had grown like a mountain of faith in a land of the faithless.

I also grew in the gentle shade of Job’s faith, eager to serve our God who answered our “why” with a declaration of “who.”

Our lives of course had been changed forever. I never got over the loss of our children, but I kept moving forward. I gave God gifts of praise with the subsequent births of all of our other children; ten more sweet little hearts to raise to love the Lord. Seven hard working boys and three beautiful daughters. And then, years later, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and, if you can believe it, even great-great grandchildren.

These stories I tell are several lifetimes in my past, but they live on to remind us all that we serve a loving and true God. He does not answer to us, but He patiently endures our faithless moments, waiting to restore our hearts when we turn back to him in hope.