The sheep kept dying.
That’s how we knew something was wrong.
It started with a strange storm—lightning flashed in the middle of the night, then fire rolled down the hill like someone had tipped over the sun. By morning, half the flock was gone. Men shouted. Women cried. An old man in a dusty robe named Job fell to his knees.
I was just a servant. My job was to carry water, tie bundles, sweep ashes from the firepit. I didn't know much about God—but I knew Job. He was fair, soft-spoken, even with his sons when they messed up. And when those sons threw wild parties, Job prayed for them. Always.
The day the messengers came—the ones who said all the animals were stolen, all the workers killed, and all his children crushed when the house fell—I thought that would be the end of him.
But he tore his robe, shaved his head, dropped to the dirt, and whispered, “The Lord gave. The Lord has taken away. May His name still be praised.”
I stared at him. Something inside me cracked open. How could any man say that? After everything?
A week passed. Then Job got sick.
I don’t mean a cough or rash—I mean his skin turned black like burned bread. His feet cracked and bled. He couldn’t lie down without groaning.
His wife—the one who used to sing in the garden—said, “Why don’t you just curse God and die?”
I waited for Job to scream that she was wrong. But all he said was, “Should we accept good from God and not trouble?”
He still wouldn’t blame God.
Still.
That’s when his friends came. And for the first seven days, they sat in silence. No words. Just dust and wind and breathing. Then they started talking.
“You must’ve sinned,” said Eliphaz, the one with the stiff beard. “God punishes the wicked.”
That made my stomach twist. I knew Job. He helped the poor. Forgave debts. Never skipped a sacrifice. If he was wicked, what hope was there for the rest of us?
But Job didn’t shout. He didn’t insult them.
Instead, he asked questions.
“Why was I born at all? Why does God chase me like this? What am I, a sea monster that needs guarding?”
That was the first time I saw a faithful man doubt—and still pray.
Still pray.
Then something terrifying happened.
A storm started out over the distant hills. At first, I thought it was rain, but it didn’t move. It hovered. Clouds twisted like ropes of smoke. The wind bent trees flat. When it reached us, a voice came from deep inside the storm.
It was God's.
I dropped flat, face in the dirt. My lungs froze. God was speaking—not to us, not to the liars or me—but to Job.
“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” His voice filled the air like thunder breathing. “Can you control the stars? Are your arms strong enough to shake the sky?”
He went on for hours, listing things—oceans, animals, things I’d never seen, like Leviathan and Behemoth. I didn’t understand all the words, but I understood this: we were tiny, and God was huge—and still, He saw Job.
At the end of it all, Job put his hand over his mouth.
“I spoke about things I didn’t understand,” he whispered. “Things too wonderful for me to know.”
And right then, I understood something.
God hadn’t punished Job.
He trusted him.
Trusted Job to stay faithful—even through loss, sickness, and pain. Trusted him to teach us what trust really looks like.
Later, Job’s health came back. His wealth doubled. He had more sons and daughters. I remember one of them—Keziah—she had eyes like polished stone, and she used to ask her father why he still walked with a cane if he’d been healed.
He’d smile and say, “Some pain leaves a mark. But it reminds me Who carried me through.”
That’s what stuck with me most.
Years passed. But every time wind rustles the trees, I remember those days of silence, dust, questions, and thunder. And I remember that God didn’t answer with comfort first—He answered with presence.
And presence was enough.
I may never understand all my suffering. But I know now: when I call, He storms in—not to crush me, but to stay with me.
And no matter what I lose, I’m not alone.
The sheep kept dying.
That’s how we knew something was wrong.
It started with a strange storm—lightning flashed in the middle of the night, then fire rolled down the hill like someone had tipped over the sun. By morning, half the flock was gone. Men shouted. Women cried. An old man in a dusty robe named Job fell to his knees.
I was just a servant. My job was to carry water, tie bundles, sweep ashes from the firepit. I didn't know much about God—but I knew Job. He was fair, soft-spoken, even with his sons when they messed up. And when those sons threw wild parties, Job prayed for them. Always.
The day the messengers came—the ones who said all the animals were stolen, all the workers killed, and all his children crushed when the house fell—I thought that would be the end of him.
But he tore his robe, shaved his head, dropped to the dirt, and whispered, “The Lord gave. The Lord has taken away. May His name still be praised.”
I stared at him. Something inside me cracked open. How could any man say that? After everything?
A week passed. Then Job got sick.
I don’t mean a cough or rash—I mean his skin turned black like burned bread. His feet cracked and bled. He couldn’t lie down without groaning.
His wife—the one who used to sing in the garden—said, “Why don’t you just curse God and die?”
I waited for Job to scream that she was wrong. But all he said was, “Should we accept good from God and not trouble?”
He still wouldn’t blame God.
Still.
That’s when his friends came. And for the first seven days, they sat in silence. No words. Just dust and wind and breathing. Then they started talking.
“You must’ve sinned,” said Eliphaz, the one with the stiff beard. “God punishes the wicked.”
That made my stomach twist. I knew Job. He helped the poor. Forgave debts. Never skipped a sacrifice. If he was wicked, what hope was there for the rest of us?
But Job didn’t shout. He didn’t insult them.
Instead, he asked questions.
“Why was I born at all? Why does God chase me like this? What am I, a sea monster that needs guarding?”
That was the first time I saw a faithful man doubt—and still pray.
Still pray.
Then something terrifying happened.
A storm started out over the distant hills. At first, I thought it was rain, but it didn’t move. It hovered. Clouds twisted like ropes of smoke. The wind bent trees flat. When it reached us, a voice came from deep inside the storm.
It was God's.
I dropped flat, face in the dirt. My lungs froze. God was speaking—not to us, not to the liars or me—but to Job.
“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?” His voice filled the air like thunder breathing. “Can you control the stars? Are your arms strong enough to shake the sky?”
He went on for hours, listing things—oceans, animals, things I’d never seen, like Leviathan and Behemoth. I didn’t understand all the words, but I understood this: we were tiny, and God was huge—and still, He saw Job.
At the end of it all, Job put his hand over his mouth.
“I spoke about things I didn’t understand,” he whispered. “Things too wonderful for me to know.”
And right then, I understood something.
God hadn’t punished Job.
He trusted him.
Trusted Job to stay faithful—even through loss, sickness, and pain. Trusted him to teach us what trust really looks like.
Later, Job’s health came back. His wealth doubled. He had more sons and daughters. I remember one of them—Keziah—she had eyes like polished stone, and she used to ask her father why he still walked with a cane if he’d been healed.
He’d smile and say, “Some pain leaves a mark. But it reminds me Who carried me through.”
That’s what stuck with me most.
Years passed. But every time wind rustles the trees, I remember those days of silence, dust, questions, and thunder. And I remember that God didn’t answer with comfort first—He answered with presence.
And presence was enough.
I may never understand all my suffering. But I know now: when I call, He storms in—not to crush me, but to stay with me.
And no matter what I lose, I’m not alone.
