Chapter Three: Before the Ruin
I will tell you how it began—before the ashes, before the whispers, before my name became a caution in sermons and a symbol of brittle faith. Before the world judged a woman who was simply trying not to drown while the sky split open above her. There was a time when our house overflowed. Overflowed with laughter. With footsteps. With the rustle of garments brushing along the halls. With the fragrance of roasted grain and oil. With the sound of our daughters' songs and our sons' debates. Yes, even with God's favor—or so it seemed.
My husband, Job, was a man apart.
Not because of his wealth, though he had much.
Not because of his wisdom, though kings sought it.
But because goodness clung to him as naturally as breath.
Even before the world knew his name, I knew the weight of his righteousness. He carried integrity the way other men carried swords—
never setting it down,
never letting it rust,
never using it to wound.
Some nights I would wake and find him already gone from our bed. I would rise quietly, wrap my shawl around my shoulders, and find him in the courtyard, head bowed in the faint light of the dawn. He prayed softly—so softly I often could not hear the words. Then he would place offerings onto the altar, one for each of our ten children.
"Just in case," he would whisper when he noticed me watching.
"Just in case they sinned in their hearts."
But I knew it was not fear that drove him—it was love. A deep, consuming love for God. A protective, tender love for us. We were blessed. Seven sons. Three daughters. Fields that bowed under the weight of grain as though honoring the man who tended them. Sheep spread across the hills like drifting clouds. Camels, donkeys, oxen—so many that counting them became an exercise in patience. Servants who respected Job more than they feared him. And I—I was the woman who walked beside the most upright man in all the east.
People said God had placed a hedge around us.
And perhaps He had.
Everything Job touched prospered.
Everything he built stood firm.
When he walked through the city gates, men rose.
When he spoke, they listened.
When he smiled, they felt safe.
Sometimes I would ask myself,
"Why us? Why this abundance? Why this peace?"
Other times, gratitude filled me so completely I dared not question it. But heaven sees what earth cannot. A conversation was happening far above our heads—one we could not hear, one we could not imagine. A conversation that would shake our world until nothing recognizable remained.
If I had known…
If I had sensed even a whisper of warning…
I would have held my children closer.
I would have begged my sons to delay their gatherings.
I would have kept my daughters home from their brothers' banquet.
I would have touched their faces, memorizing each one, until they laughed and told me I was worrying like an old woman.
But blessings deceive you. They make you believe tomorrow will look like today. Our sons feasted together often—joyous, loud, full of life. They always invited their sisters, who softened the edges of their brothers' banter with laughter and gentle teasing. I would stand in the doorway sometimes, watching them, letting my heart expand until it almost hurt with pride. Ten children—my heart walking around in ten different bodies.
After every feast, Job made offerings.
"Just in case," he would say again. "I want to cover them in sacrifice, in prayer, in love."
Everything felt secure. Promised. Ours.
Until the day everything shifted. It began with a messenger—a single man. Breathless. Dust-covered. Eyes wild with terror. I remember the way he stumbled into the courtyard, clutching the doorframe as though afraid even the house would collapse around him.
"My lord," he gasped,
"my mistress—"
Job rose immediately, steady and calm, though I saw a shadow flicker across his face.
"What is it?" he asked.
The messenger gulped air.
"The oxen were plowing… the donkeys grazing nearby… when the Sabeans attacked. They struck down the servants—every one—and took the animals."
I felt my stomach tighten. A small part of me whispered, This is the beginning of something… something wrong. But aloud I asked,
"And you? How did you escape?"
The man trembled.
"I… I do not know, my lady. I ran. I hid. I am the only one left."
Only one left.
Only one spared.
A prickling unease crawled up my spine. Before I could speak again, another pair of feet pounded toward the house. A second messenger burst into the courtyard, breath heaving, face ashen.
"My lord—fire!" he cried.
"Fire of God fell from the heavens! It burned the sheep—the servants—all of them!"
I stepped toward him sharply.
"There was no time. One moment we tended the sheep, the next—" He gestured helplessly, hands shaking. "Flames fell like rain."
"And you alone survived?" I pressed.
"Yes," he whispered. "Only me."
A chill slid across my shoulders. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. A third messenger rushed in before the second could even finish speaking.
"The Chaldeans formed three bands," he cried. "They raided the camels—killed the servants—took everything!"
My breath caught. "Another attack? In the same day?"
He nodded, sweat dripping from his face.
"Yes, my lady. And… and I alone escaped."
I took a step back. Three disasters. Three lone survivors. My mind spun. This is not coincidence. This is unraveling. This is a storm breaking open. But before I could gather my thoughts, a fourth man appeared—running, stumbling, collapsing at our feet.
His face was gray.
His lips trembled.
His eyes were hollow, already grieving. I knew—before he even spoke— that this was the one who would bring a dagger with words.
"My lord… my lady…" He swallowed hard.
"Your sons… your daughters…"
My blood froze.
"What of them?" Job demanded, voice steady, but the tremor in his hands betrayed him. The man's voice cracked.
"They were feasting… in the eldest brother's house… when suddenly a mighty wind struck all four corners… the house collapsed… and—"
He hesitated.
"Say it," I whispered.
"No one survived," he said, tears spilling. "I— I alone escaped."
I stared at him, numb with disbelief.
"You alone?" I whispered. "Again… again only one survives… to tell the tale?"
He nodded helplessly.
Something inside me tore. A ripping so deep it did not feel human. My knees buckled. I felt the world tilt, felt my breath leave me in a strangled cry. Job stood still. Too still.
He tore his robe.
Shaved his head.
And fell to the ground—not in rage, not in despair, but in worship. In worship.
"The Lord gave," he said, voice shaking, "and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." I stared at him—unable to understand how a man with such grief could speak of blessing.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to shake him—ask him how faith could survive such devastation. But I had no voice. Only silence. Deep, suffocating silence. The servants bowed their heads. The messengers wept softly. The wind held its breath. This is how it began.
Not with sin.
Not with failure.
Not with divine anger.
But with a man who loved God…and a woman who loved that man…standing at the edge of a storm that would strip us bare, expose the bones of our souls, and make the heavens themselves feel unbearably far.
Before the ashes.
Before the curses.
Before the night Job damned the day of his birth—there was this:
A home full of laughter.
A life full of promise.
A mother's heart full of ten living children.
And then— in a single afternoon— the world changed.
And nothing… nothing would ever be the same again.