In the Field of Grace

by Tessa Afshar

  They had two servants, sturdy young boys who cared for the twenty donkeys and the carts that belonged to the caravan. By their accents, Ruth recognized them as Israelites. She thought the boys far more capable than their masters. They had strapped well-made slings at their waist, and she could detect the bulge of round stones tucked into their homespun sashes. Ruth suspected they knew how to put them to good use.

  Sunlight had barely caressed the earth when the caravan began its slow descent down the hills surrounding Numeira. Every hour drew them closer to the Salt Sea and the wild terrain that skirted it. Heat, insects, thirst, and the uneven roads made their brisk walk harder than Ruth had expected. Even the donkeys seemed out of sorts and tired. When everyone began to wilt under a remorseless sun, the group took rest under the shadow of a great rock. After a modest lunch and some rest, they resumed their interminable trek.

  They crossed the Zered Brook where the land of Moab ended and the boundaries of the nation of Edom began. For the first time, Ruth’s feet left the land of her fathers.

  Almost immediately, the terrain changed. It grew desertlike and flat. Sand dunes surrounded the road; the winds often whipped up the sand with sudden fierceness, until the fine granules covered the road so completely that without their guides they might have become lost.

  They stopped early that evening. No one had the strength to take another step. Their portly leader explained that this one night they would spend out in the open.

  Ruth went to their cart to retrieve cloaks and mats for sleeping when the frog-eyed guide approached her.

  “Let me help you,” he said, coming too close. Ruth could smell the scent of sour wine and rotten teeth on his breath and shifted away with discomfort.

  “I need no help. I thank you.” She turned her back to him.

  The man took no heed of her assurance. Instead, his body followed hers. “No trouble,” he said, and bent forward until his torso came into intimate contact with Ruth’s back, trapping her between him and the cart.

  She felt rage rise up in her, followed by a sharp bite of nausea as he groped her with invasive hands. Without thinking, she raised an elbow and crashed it into his middle. Too drunk to avoid the sharp blow, the man heaved over, a hiss of air trickling out of his mouth.

  “Keep away from me, you filth,” Ruth whispered, her cheeks crimson.

  She said nothing about the incident to Naomi, concerned that the older woman would tell her that it proved her point. With only her mother-in-law for protection, a young woman was easy prey. She lay wakeful on her mat, pulling Mahlon’s cloak closer about her.

  It was close to the third watch of the night. The stars blazed like fiery torches in the black sky. A strange sound ruptured the stillness of the evening. Ruth sat up and peered about her, seeking the source of the noise. It came again, more distinctly. Horses’ hooves. Ruth ran to one of the servant boys and found him awake and ready with his sling. The hooves approached closer. Now Ruth could see three riders in the moonlight, coming straight for the caravan.

  They held aloft drawn swords.

  “Wake up!” she cried. “Thieves! Wake up!”

  With sudden confusion, the little caravan burst into life. Wails of fear rent the silence of the midnight hour. From a corner of her eye, Ruth saw their two leaders scavenge for their weapons. She recalled their dull-looking daggers and despaired. The portly one hastily lit a torch from the fire pit; instead of helping them in their plight, its light served to make them easier targets.

  Falling on her knees next to Naomi, Ruth held the older woman in a trembling embrace. “Lord, help us,” she whispered.

  Naomi caressed her back as if she were soothing a child after a nightmare. But this was not a dream. Naomi’s words were indistinguishable, lost in the midst of the horrified cries that surrounded them.

  The first horseman, a wide-shouldered giant of a man, arrived a few moments before his companions. He went straight for the frog-eyed caravan leader, his aim brutally accurate. The wine-soaked Moabite stood no chance. There wasn’t even a fight. He folded over, like one of Pharaoh’s traveling stools, and collapsed with a strangled groan.

  One of the young Israelite servants had a stone in his sling and began to whirl it. He was a short boy, barely more than a child, facing a giant. And yet he seemed filled with an eerie assurance. The thief saw him and turned his horse in his direction. The round stone flew before the horse had a chance to take one leap. It landed on the thief’s forehead. Wide shoulders quivered, pitched forward, and the man crumbled over his horse and lay still on the sandy ground.

  “Well done,” one of the guests shouted.

  The other two bandits were now almost upon them. They had tucked the flowing fabric of their turbans against their necks, and only theirs eyes were visible. One pair of black eyes turned on Ruth and he shifted his horse toward her.

  Her skin grew cold in spite of the heat. She looked around, seeking a weapon with which she could defend Naomi and herself. Besides her frayed sandals, her dead husband’s threadbare cloak, and a handful of dates, she saw nothing. The Hebrew boy stood in the wrong spot; Ruth and Naomi’s position presented an impossible angle for the sling to work effectively. In the span of a heartbeat, Ruth saw her own death riding toward her. Even if the thief’s sword did not cut her and Naomi down, his horse’s hooves would crush them.

  Had the Lord brought her this far only for her to be slaughtered by bandits, before ever setting foot on Israel’s soil? Had the Lord raised His fist against them as Naomi claimed?

  Just then, a sight even more frightful than the bandits met her eye. A male lion with an enormous mane appeared out of the darkness, prowling with a powerful grace that made Ruth’s hair stand on end. For a breathless moment, the beast turned its head, and it seemed to Ruth to look straight at her. It roared, a sound so horrifying that Ruth would happily have run into the arms of one of the thieves to find shelter.

  Then the lion turned and with a running leap jumped toward the highwayman who had targeted Ruth. The beast flew across the back of the thief’s horse to sink its teeth into the man’s throat and drag him to the ground. Unharmed, the horse reared, screaming in terror, and began to run in the opposite direction. The bandit had no chance. Death came for him swiftly.

  The lion shook its full, golden mane and straightened. Again came that strange, fierce gaze, half wild, half focused. It turned and beheld the last thief who had been thrown off his terrified horse. A wet streak marked the front of the man’s tunic where he had lost control of his bladder. With a strangled yelp, he ran in the same direction as his horse.

  The golden lion did not give chase. He roared loud enough to shake the foundations of every heart in the small gathering before bounding gracefully away and melting into the night.

  No one dared even breathe for a long time. No one uttered a word. All thoughts of sleep were abandoned. At least an hour passed before people began to whisper amongst themselves, their words hushed, their hands, as they gesticulated with dark emotion, shaking.

  Saved by a lion.

  The Lord used very odd instruments to fulfill His will. And it seemed that He intended to get Ruth to Israel against all odds.

  Ruth was not sure whether to be reassured or terrified by God’s determination. Why did it matter to Him so much if she should arrive on the soil of Judah? What did the life of one Moabite widow matter to the Lord of heaven and earth?

  Chapter

  Six

  I am sick with despair.

  PSALM 35:12

  The next day, after hastily burying the dead, the caravan traveled west and then northward, hoping to make Ain Boqeq before nightfall. Ruth saw the Salt Sea for the first time. Blue green and narrow, it stretched with an eerie stillness.

  “It’s beautiful,” Ruth said, who had never seen a body of water grander than a stream.

  “Nothing lives in it,” Naomi said. “Not even a single fish. Nothing survives the salt. It would be like living inside a tear drop.” She twirle
d a pebble she had been turning between her thumb and forefinger as she walked. With a sudden movement, she cast the pebble aside. “Barren, like my life. I’ve turned into that sea.”

  For their noonday break, they sat by the water’s rocky shores.

  “If you have any cuts on your skin, don’t go inside the water. It will sting like a firebrand,” said the young man whose sling had saved them from the sword of the bandit the night before. “And don’t take your shoes off. The rocks are sharp, even in the sea, and can hurt your feet so badly you’ll need to be sewn up.”

  “And if you have no wish to die, don’t drink the water. Besides the salt, it has poison,” the other young man added.

  The first young man began to walk along the shore, head bent, examining the ground. “It offers up good things too.” He straightened, holding a shiny black rock. “Bitumen. Helps to waterproof baskets and can be used as a seal or even for fuel.” He handed the block to Ruth. It reflected the light like a jewel and had sharp edges.

  Ruth smiled and pressed the bitumen into Naomi’s hand. “So, even a dead sea has good things to offer. Gifts that bring life and help others.”

  Naomi dropped the bitumen and turned her back.

  The rest of their journey to Bethlehem proved unremarkable, for which Ruth gave hourly thanks. There were only so many lions and bandits that she could stomach in a given week.

  They spent one night in Ain Boqeq and another in Engedi before pushing northwest to Bethlehem. Other than the sharp sting of mosquitos, they encountered no other instruments bent on piercing their flesh. They bore with the ignominies of travel: heat rash, insects, exhaustion, small rations, never-ending dust, the grumbling of other guests. But Ruth felt too grateful to complain. They had been spared a horrible death. Perhaps worse.

  When they arrived near Bethlehem, they parted ways with the caravan, which continued its travel north. Enough light lingered in the sky to see the fields belonging to Bethlehem, overflowing with wheat and barley. Row after row of healthy grain, grown tall and strong, appeared close to harvest. The fields were bursting with bounty.

  “When we left Judah, these fields were empty, but I was full,” Naomi said, dry-eyed. “I held two vigorous boys in my arms, and my husband bore my burdens.” She leaned against a palm tree that stood bent on the side of the road. “Now these farms are full to overflowing, but I return empty. So empty.”

  Ruth held the callused hand of her mother-in-law, withered before its time, withered with loss. “Let’s go home, Mother. Where your husband took you as a bride and you birthed your sons. You will feel better once we are settled there.”

  Naomi’s house sat just inside the southern gate of Bethlehem. Her lands stretched beyond the gate, but they had gone wild in the years since the family left for Moab.

  Ruth’s first glimpse of the house came as a pleasant surprise. In the outdoor enclosure, where one day they would grow their garden and keep their livestock, God willing, a solitary almond tree survived, clinging to life with a tenacity that made Ruth smile. No sign of Naomi’s original garden remained except for a few clumps of mint and rosemary. But that was to be expected after so many years of neglect.

  Rough sandstones of varying sizes made up the walls of the house. As they pushed the door open, it became evident that this house was larger than their home in Moab, with two rooms on the ground floor, a small upper room, and a flat roof that would serve well during the sweltering nights of summer. Ruth imagined spreading their mattresses there, and sleeping under the stars, with the gentle night breeze fanning them into sleep.

  She fetched a lamp from their cart and grimaced when she lit it. Various critters had made a comfortable home for themselves in the rooms and would have to be expelled. In the roof she detected several substantial holes.

  When she attempted to climb the ladder to examine the damage up close, she found several rungs had rotted through, rendering the ladder useless. Carpentry was not one of her talents. She set the ladder aside. Fortunately, they had passed the rainy season, so the repairs to the roof could wait for a few weeks.

  Naomi gasped as she beheld the extent of the damage. Instead of feeling comforted by the sight of her old home, by the sight of Bethlehem, she seemed to sink more inward. With swift steps she walked out.

  Ruth sighed as she threw open the windows. They would probably be better off sleeping outdoors on this first night. She tied her scarf more securely around her head, fetched her old broom from the cart, and began the hard work of sweeping cobwebs and dust, not to mention some unpleasant gifts from the field mice.

  Tired already from their long march that day, Ruth pushed herself, knowing Naomi would feel better if her home were clean. When the light faded completely, she had to give up. Outside, Naomi sat slumped against the cart. She had ignored the donkey, not bothering to feed it, or rub it down. Ruth frowned. Naomi was usually so thoughtful of others, even a dumb creature like their old donkey.

  She forced the older woman to eat and drink before seeing to the beast’s needs. The last of their water disappeared inside its cavernous belly.

  “We have to go to the well in the morning,” she said. “Do you remember where it is?”

  “I’m mourning, not stupid.”

  Ruth swallowed a chuckle. “Shall we sleep outside tonight? I’ll set up our mats right here. We should be safe, inside the city gates.”

  Ruth examined her wrinkled, travel-stained tunic in the pale rays of the early morning sun and sighed. Rummaging through the baskets, she found a fresh tunic, and dampening a cloth with the last few drops of water, she did her best to wash. Unbraiding her hair, she combed it, bringing order back to the thick chestnut mane. Her eyes pricked as she remembered Mahlon running his fingers through her hair, calling it soft like silk.

  “How would you know?” she had asked and laughed. “You’ve never touched silk in your life.”

  She brushed the tears off and straightened, pulling her scarf over her head. Today, she would meet her Israelite neighbors for the first time. They would judge her deficient, she knew. A barren, widowed, Moabite woman. Was there a greater failure in the sight of Judah? All the combing in the world could not fix that. Tangle-free hair and a clean tunic could not help her avoid their harsh judgment.

  She would just have to change their minds one day at a time. And if she couldn’t, she would learn to live with their rejection.

  As she walked outside, she spied a clump of several plants, growing knee length in what used to be the garden. Gasping, she strode forward to examine them. They were wheat. The plants were healthy, bearing fat kernels, which were several weeks from maturity. They would not yield enough grain for two suppers. Still, their incongruent presence seemed strangely reassuring. Like a sign. No one had planted the wheat. The wind must have blown the seeds from nearby fields, and they had taken root in Naomi’s desolate garden just in time to welcome her back to Bethlehem. They sat there waving in the breeze like a welcome flag, like a reassuring promise. Ruth drew a caressing hand over the stalks and turned to fetch Naomi for their walk into town.

  Many women had gathered by the city well. As Naomi and Ruth approached, they felt the weight of curious gazes. Then a few audible gasps came from the crowd.

  “That’s Naomi!” one woman exclaimed.

  Another cried, “It looks like her!”

  A third woman said, “Is it really Naomi? She’s been gone ten years, if not more. Could this be the same Naomi who lived among us?”

  Naomi, silent since the night before, turned on them, her lips thin, her jaw clenched. “Don’t call me Naomi!” Her voice came out husky, as if she had a cold. “That woman is gone. Lost. Buried in Moab. Call me Mara. That’s who I am now. Bitter.”

  Ruth winced. It was one thing to witness Naomi slide down into an abyss of desolation, but to hear her describe her life with such bleak hopelessness tore at Ruth.

  A short, curvaceous woman about the same age as Naomi approached and laid a hand on her shoulder. “But, Naom
i, why? What has happened to you?”

  “The Almighty has dealt bitterly with me. I went from this place full. But the Lord has brought me back empty. My husband is gone. My sons are buried beside him in Moab. Why call me Naomi? What is pleasant about my life? The Lord has spoken against me. Look at the calamity He has sent upon me.”

  Ruth could not bite back the gasp that escaped her mouth. Never had she heard her mother-in-law speak so resentfully against God. She had come to see Him as her enemy, the one who sentenced her to irredeemable pain. His hand was the hammer that crushed her with no mercy. No hope. She had lost her sons. But worse, she had lost her Lord. The realization appalled Ruth. But she knew she could not talk Naomi out of this conclusion. She could not advise or admonish her. She needed to remain silent and pray. Let God deal with Naomi’s heart.

  Let Your presence heal what Naomi’s disappointments have harmed, Lord.

  The curvaceous woman embraced Naomi. “I share your sorrow. May the Lord restore your crushed spirit.”

  Naomi seemed to notice the woman for the first time. “Are you Miriam?”

  “That’s me. Have I changed?”

  “Not so much as I. A broken heart reflects on a woman’s body. I never thought my skin would shrivel with my heart.”

  “You’re still lovely, Naomi. And most welcome in your home and among your people. Now tell us, who is this young woman you have with you?”

  “This is Ruth, the wife of my son Mahlon. I told her to stay in Kir-hareseth among her own folk, and to find herself a new husband. See how young and beautiful she is? But she would not leave me.”

  “A Moabite?” Miriam asked, with a wince. Ruth did not miss the murmurs that rose up around them.