I am thinking today of the book of Job, and what a remarkable book it is. The stage has been set for Job to suffer—all because of a challenge Satan issued to God. It makes me pause and take a deep breath to think of God permitting that kind of suffering. There are many who believe that the book of Job is a parable, with many truths but no real history. That could potentially make it easier to swallow for me in regard to God’s participation. But whether it is a story that happened or a story that was only told, I know in my heart that God is a mystery, and is never “swallow-able.”

The best part of the book is the ending. Finally, after all the discourse between Job and his friends, after all the groaning and pleading, arguing and chest-beating, God decides to speak. But again, the mystery. God does not reveal what happened backstage.  Instead God asks a series of questions—amazing, poetic questions, like

• Do you know where I store the lightning? 
• Have you given orders to the morning sun to rise?
• Where were you when I set the earth’s foundations?
• Does the hawk take flight by your wisdom? 
• Can you tame the leviathan? 

All creation questions, about understanding, tending, controlling the intricate design and balance of this world.

And Job’s response is so fitting. “You have spoken of things too wonderful for me. I put my hand over my mouth…”

Why do we put our hands over our mouths?  When does this occur?  When we say something we should not have said.  When we are afraid, and are holding the wall of spoken fear inside. When we are in complete awe. I can think of many times when this last reason has occurred in my own life.  Four especially stay with me.

Our family took a road trip to the Grand Canyon. Although I had seen pictures of it, no picture, not even a movie with its wide screen can do justice to its magnitude and color and depth. We parked our car, walked into the lodge, and then stepped out onto the deck, at the invitation of the desk clerk. I wonder if they watch new arrivals’ faces as they get their first glimpse. I would certainly want to, if only as a reminder for myself not to take living daily with such grandeur for granted. As I tried to take in the sweep of majesty, I put my hand over my mouth (literally) and could not speak.

*******

A much smaller moment, but just as noteworthy came years later as I sat on our front porch in the summer. As is my custom, I began my day with devotions. My eyes were open as I prayed, and I happened to spot a small yellow songbird as it perched upon a bush before me. Such a dash of golden wonder on God’s canvas! I whispered, “Thank you, Father, for the color yellow.” And surely God heard me and surely was pleased at my noticing and praising, for seconds later not one, but two yellow birds perched on the ledge of the porch less than three feet from me. It was as if God was saying, “You like it?  Enjoy. Enjoy double!”

*******

Our son Adam’s memorial service was one of the most holy and communal times of worship I have ever experienced.  Adam’s life was, to quote Chaim Potok, “a blink of an eye” in the span of things—but “the eye that blinks—ah, that is something.”  The church was filled with people who had been touched by such a short blink, and those who led worship were truly vessels of wisdom and truth and comfort, using the child to point to the Father. I know that for John, our pastor, Adam’s suffering had been a huge challenge to his own faith journey.  John was a man not given to charismatic worship, although I never doubted his own passion for God. Near the end of the service, as so many raised their hands during the singing of one final song of victory, John, who occasionally reproached his wife for public displays like raising one’s hands in worship, as it ruffled his sense of decorum, flung both arms towards heaven, dropping his head back, letting all the possibilities and glory in without restraint, looking like Moses himself must have looked as he raised his staff to part the Red Sea. I will never forget that moment of abandonment.

*******

Driving to school in the winter’s early predawn hours was a time of reflection and solitude for me. As I came up a hill in the darkness, I wondered at so much light up ahead. Floodlights?  A small bend in the road and then, there it was. The moon — huge, golden, looking like it was literally resting on the top of the hill. I put my hand over my mouth and wept.

*******

All ”things too wonderful for me.” All small peeks behind the curtain, meant to give us a hope and an eagerness for what will someday be revealed to us. I can hardly wait.

Header photo by Johannes Krupinski on Unsplash
Lightning photo by Sotiris Savvides on Unsplash