Reflections from the Ash Heap
So after a week of silence and groaning, Job speaks. The first words out of his mouth are those of lament. Job laments the day he was born. He wishes he had died. He wishes he would die. His is passionate sorrow. Twice in chapter three, he speaks of rest. He has none. The suffering have no rest.
Many times, I have heard the lamentations of the criminally insane. Theirs is a bitter suffering. They cry, like Job, for rest, but have none. They deplore their lives. Their words of lament express deep regret over their actions. Actions that arose from a mind diseased or crippled or shriveled. They wonder why they are sick and do not get well. They rant at abuse and wonder why they were ever born into such families or had such detestable things happen to them. Some hurt themselves. Some want to die, but do not. Some want to die and do. But most live . . . restlessly.
They sigh and groan. They curse and question. They fear and dread. They are not at ease. They are not quiet. They are not at rest. This is suffering, pain, grief. This is lament. These sufferings echo Job. Job is the hero because he is not afraid to speak his deepest hurts, to say what others don't want to hear, to say what others don't want to know. Job laments loudly, and all those who know suffering want to add theirs to the restless Ash Heap.
The restlessness of suffering cannot remain silent. The time comes for lamenting; and in that moment, it must be loud and full of curses. It is the deepest expression of unrest. It is the painful unrest of the Ash Heap.