The Protestant Anchorite

I have read Job's Book several times.  The first few times were, perhaps not perfunctory, but at least with academic detachment.  I wanted to master the literary form and content of Job's Book so that I could answer test questions about it.  The first time I read it with real understanding, the God of Job scared me.  This is a God who strips away family members as if they were chatel.  I knew grief.  The incurable grief of losing a spouse, a child, to death, can be crushing.  I didn't want to be crushed (again) like Job was.  It was debilitatingly painful and frightening.  The kind of fright that was the fear you might have walked into a hell from which there was no escape.  I wanted to think that it was a test God had given me, and I had passed, and so He was not allowed to give it to me again.  But the God of Job could give it to me as many times as suited His purposes.  This God wanted me to know Him and love Him more than I could love anything on earth.  This God humbled Himself to be born to a virgin teenager in a stable.  He humbled himself to take the form of a slave.  He humbled himself to death on a Roman torture stake.  He passed down into hell to bring out the prisoners.  And He beckoned me to follow Him.  Oh, God, no!  Oh, God, why? Why?  Because only in crushing humility, from atop the ash heap of my mortal life could I truly know His Unspeakable Love!