Job

W. thinks of Job on his ash pile. Job, afflicted with boils, his possessions destroyed, his offspring killed, who sat scraping his skin with broken pottery. Job, who, when his wife told him to curse God, reproached her: 'shall we receive good from God and shall not receive evil?'

Never did he question divine providence. Never, even though he cursed the day he was born.

And of what of him, W.? Many times he's thought to curse my presence in my life. Many times to shake his fist at the sky, to cry, why me God?, why me? But no answer comes. No whirlwind.

Is he still being tested? Am I his trial, his burden? Elihu counsels Job that he should expect no explanation for his travails from God. God is not to be questioned. Then is it only when W. stops shaking his fist at the sky, when he stops cursing, that the whirlwind might speak?