one man's faith

There he sat beneath the shade of an acacia tree, squatting on a gnarled root that jutted out of the dry grass. He was a revolting sight. Besides that he was naked except for a tattered piece of loincloth, every square inch of his body was dotted by clusters of bulbous, pulsating boils that glistened under the light of noonday.

His name was Job. Less than two weeks ago, he was the richest man in Uz, father to ten beautiful lads and ladies, lord of a thousand flocks of sheep and camels, master of a whole caravan of servants. Now, he was a pathetic boil-infested beggar on the road, left for dead by his wife ("Curse God and die!" she jeered, and left him in a huff) and ostracized by the very city he himself built.

One day, while the hot desert sun dragged itself across the cloudless sky, a young traveler, perhaps moved to pity by Job's plight, ventured to drop a copper coin on his begging bowl, and observed what the poor old man might do.

But Job never looked up. He was bent over, trying to reach a huge carbuncle on the middle of his back with a claypot shard. And then it broke. Blood and pus oozed out of the freshly opened wound, attracting a cloud of buzzing horseflies. And yet, beneath the searing pain on his back there remained that maddening itch.

"Oh God!" He sobbed, his agonized groans echoing through the rocky hills.

The boy stood still, biting his lip. Finally, with a look of anguished pity and revulsion on his face, he whispered, almost imperceptibly, "God bless you, Job." And then he scurried back to his family's camels and joined his parents.

Oh, how I wish that, in the face of the darkest trials, when everything dear and precious to me is stripped away and cast into the merciless flames of time, I could still honestly shout with all my heart Job's unforgettable words.

Though He slay me, yet I will hope in Him.