The Feasts of Uz

A Poem Reflecting on Job 1:4

By Russ Hjelm

In the land of Uz where the east wind whispers  

across wide pastures and the tents of plenty stand,  

there lived a man whose name was spoken with reverence,  

blameless in his ways, upright before the heavens.  

To him were granted seven sons, strong in limb and spirit,  

and three daughters fair as the morning light on distant hills.  

These sons, grown to the fullness of their years,  

would turn their faces toward one another's homes  

in a sacred cycle, each upon his appointed day.  

No random gathering, no hasty meal snatched in passing,  

but a deliberate pilgrimage of kinship,  

a rhythm carved into the turning of time itself.  

The eldest would open wide his doors first,  

tables laden with the yield of field and flock,  

wine poured from jars that caught the sun's last gold,  

bread broken warm from the hearth's embrace.  

Then the second, in his turn, would summon them,  

his roof a shelter for laughter and remembered stories,  

the third, the fourth, until the seventh had fulfilled his portion,  

each house a station in the circle of their days.  

And always the three sisters were called,  

not left aside in shadowed chambers or forgotten wings,  

but drawn into the heart of the feast with open invitation.  

They came, these daughters of the same lineage,  

to sit among brothers, to share the cup and the loaf,  

their voices mingling in the song of shared blood,  

their presence sealing the bond that abundance alone could never forge.  

What grace moved in those gatherings,  

what quiet theology breathed through the clink of vessels  

and the low murmur of contentment!  

For in the breaking of bread they confessed  

the goodness of the One who gives seed to the sower  

and bread to the eater, who multiplies the grain  

and causes the vine to yield its fruit in season.  

No solitary splendor marked their joy;  

it was communal, woven through with regard,  

a living parable of shalom before the storm would break.  

The sons honored one another in the hosting,  

the sisters in the coming, each act a thread  

in the tapestry of family under heaven's watchful eye.  

Yet even in the glow of those feasts  

a shadow hovered—not of foreboding visible,  

but of the frailty that clings to mortal flesh.  

For merriment can veil the heart's secret wanderings,  

and wine can loosen lips to murmur against the Giver.  

Still the cycle turned, the invitations went forth,  

the tables were spread, the laughter rose like incense,  

and the household flourished in its ordered delight.  

O ancient scene preserved in sacred text,  

you stand as witness to a world before the whirlwind,  

before the messenger of ruin came running,  

before the fire fell and the wind tore the house apart.  

In your simplicity you speak of Eden glimpsed again,  

of children walking in harmony beneath a father's blessing,  

of days appointed for rejoicing, not for mourning,  

of kinship strong enough to bridge separate dwellings.  

Let the memory linger like the scent of roasted lamb  

long after the plates are cleared and the fire banked low.  

For though calamity will come, as come it must  

to test the root beneath the leaf and bloom,  

this image endures: sons and daughters gathered,  

eating and drinking in the houses of their kin,  

celebrating the gift of life in one another's company,  

under the gaze of a God who numbers their days  

and calls them, even now, to the greater feast prepared.  

In the land of Uz the feasts were kept,  

each on his day, each with invitation sent,  

and the circle held until the circle broke—  

yet in the breaking, the deeper circle of redemption  

would one day be revealed, where every tear is wiped away  

and the table never ends.