As the days pass, I imagine Job's friends shifting awkwardly on the ground. Numb with waiting for reprieve, something to happen. Unknown to Job and his friends, the whole of heaven and earth also watches and waits. Finally, Job speaks. He can wait no longer, for his grief surges like an angry swollen river. The words come passionately, painfully. Words as bleak as the external man. Job is desperate, yearning to be unborn or born dead. Trapped in an endless night unrelieved by day.
I am not a stranger to the dark despair of Job, although those times are thankfully rare.
God, even in the darkness you are with me. You comfort me.