The New Job

The heavy hammer came down

With a mighty clang

Against the sword,

Laid upon the anvil,

A sacrifice upon

An unflinching iron altar.

The sword seemed to cry,

Echoing the repeated blows,

That rang through the shop,

Wailing,

From the beating,

From the searing fires

It had passed through,

As it was steadily deformed

From its old familiar shape

Into something foreign.

Job knew suffering.

The trials of his life

Had beaten him down,

And hardened him.

The divorce,

The loss of the companionship

And the love of his children,

As they departed with their mother

And crossed the country

To call a stranger father.

He fought bitterly,

Sword in hand,

To remain in their lives,

And still lost the battle.

The failure of his business,

The subsequent bankruptcy,

The foreclosure on his home,

All those losses,

Heaped upon

The loss of his muddled moral moorings.

At one point he had nothing:

No money,

No home,

No meaningful employment,

No friends,

No family,

No direction,

No dreams,

No destiny.

Only his faith,

And a desire to fix things.

At his very lowest

He had wanted to die,

To end his suffering,

But he couldn’t bear the thought

That his beloved children

Couldn’t return through a locked door,

Could never return to love him

If he shut them out forever.

The hammer again swung upwards,

Then down against the sword,

Mercilessly mutilating the metal,

Until it lost its identity.

And once he was in the very dust

At the bottom of the blackened pit,

He could only look up.

He humbled himself,

And acknowledged his myriad faults.

They were legion,

And he denied them no longer.

He was truly penitent

For the pain he had caused others.

He changed his ways,

His surroundings,

His lifestyle,

Begged forgiveness,

And regularly went to therapy,

And sought counsel from others,

To understand himself,

To know his weaknesses,

And therefore to build new strengths.

He unlearned the harmful traits,

His addictions,

And coping mechanisms

He had forged in a difficult youth,

And struggled to reform himself,

As he fought with the unfamiliar

And entered a new territory

Of self awareness,

And purpose.

It wasn’t easy.

Truly, it was the hardest thing

He had ever undertaken to do.

But it was necessary.

He struck another blow

On the heated metal.

The sword needed to pass

Through fire, through stress,

To soften it,

To make it malleable,

So he could repurpose it,

And give it new life.

The blows were strong and steady.

And though it resisted him,

Yet he could see it change.

He moved across the country,

In an attempt

To be physically closer to his kids.

Even if their mother denied his existence,

He wouldn’t let the distance be an excuse.

He would make everything possible

For their eventual return.

He prepared himself.

He became a better man,

A new Job.

He trained in a new profession,

To rebuild his financial security,

And eventually found an employer

Willing to give him a chance,

And he learned,

And grew.

The final blows were coming soon.

The sword was no longer discernible,

Changed into a new tool.

Soon he would smooth it out,

And polish it into a fine shine,

Ready for use in its new form.

He no longer hated her.

He was done with the fighting,

The tears,

The anguish of spirit.

He let go of the bitterness,

And the gall in his soul.

He relinquished the right

To judge another.

He made peace

With her,

And with himself,

And forged a new heart,

From the fires of Gethsemane.

He looked at his hands

As they hefted

The newly forged plow,

Reflecting a new light.