by Tessa Afshar
“A loyal daughter. She is kin to me now,” Naomi spoke stiffly before hefting her jar and approaching the well. In silence, she and Ruth filled four jars with cool, clear water.
Before heading back to Naomi’s house, Ruth turned to Miriam and gave her a sweet smile and a respectful nod—a mute indication that she held no grudges against the woman for her obvious disapproval. The woman’s eyes opened wide and she blinked. Ruth’s smile grew wider.
“Thank you for defending me,” she told her mother-in-law as they ambled home.
“I spoke the truth, child. I am only sorry that you will pay a high price for your decision. You will suffer for loving me.”
“I would suffer more without you.”
For seven days, Ruth labored in the house, washing everything with lye. She traveled several times each day to the well, for the work of cleaning required much water. She went alone since Naomi had sunk back to her earlier paralysis and seemed incapable of doing much beyond staring into space. The women of Bethlehem left Ruth alone. They gave her curious stares, as if she were a strange animal they had never seen. But no one came close. No one offered polite conversation. No one offered hospitality.
Once, Ruth noticed an older woman struggling to shift her heavy jar, and without thinking, reached forward to lend a hand. The woman scampered away from her touch with such haste that she dropped the jar, spilling the precious water within.
“Stay away from me, Moabite,” she screeched. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
Ruth apologized, her words mumbled in her embarrassment, mindful of the hostile stares trained her way. After that, she tried to visit the well later in the day, when few women came to fetch water.
While Ruth worked on bringing order to the house, Miriam came to visit Naomi several times. At least her care for Naomi was greater than her disapproval of the Moabite in her house.
“The Lord has given me the bread of adversity and the water of affliction,” Naomi told her old friend. “I trusted Him. Why did He turn His back on me?”
Naomi’s bitterness lay heavy on Ruth’s heart though she could do nothing to allay her suffering. Ruth tried to show her love through the ordinary things of life—cooking, cleaning, fetching water, combing Naomi’s tangled hair. Sometimes she feared Naomi had disappeared so far down the dark, cavernous pits of despair that she wasn’t even aware of Ruth. At other times, Naomi seemed to rise up and see a tiny glimpse of her.
Once, when Miriam had come to visit, Ruth served both women bean stew with fresh rosemary, a welcome change from the stale bread, cheese, dried fruit, and nuts that had sustained them for two weeks. She had only made enough for two, not expecting a visitor, and made an excuse for not partaking of the food. She did not wish the women to realize that she had given up her share. As she cleaned the pot, she overheard Naomi singing her praises to Miriam, speaking of her kindness to Mahlon and her steadfastness after he was gone from them.
“She gave you her own share of stew, did you notice? She is always generous like that,” Naomi said to her friend.
Miriam dipped her bread into the bowl. “You are worthy of great kindness, Naomi.”
No one had ever taken Naomi’s plaintive demand to call her Mara seriously. The residents of Bethlehem continued to call her by her given name. They refused to make bitterness her new identity, and Naomi did not insist that they heed her demand. In truth, she insisted on little. She showed no interest in the world around her, except, on occasion, to rise up in her daughter-in-law’s defense.
Ruth smiled, her heart lifting, not because of Naomi’s praise of her negligible sacrifice but because Naomi’s words showed that she had been alive enough to notice. She doubted that Naomi’s efforts to make her acceptable in Miriam’s eyes would go far. But she appreciated her mother-in-law’s care. Even in her broken state, she was trying to carve out a chance for Ruth to settle peacefully in this new land.
By the seventh day, the house shone, and their meager belongings had been arranged neatly, giving the once abandoned place a welcoming aspect. Ruth had managed to build a fire in the hearth and was busy making a lentil stew. After a week of traveling and another spent restoring Naomi’s house, they would finally eat something besides stale bread, old cheese, and dried fruit.
As she went through their stores, she could no longer deny how desperate they were for food and income. They would starve if she could not earn a living. How had they become so destitute in the seven months since the death of Naomi’s sons? They had never been wealthy. But they had been frugal and hardworking. And still it wasn’t enough.
They hovered on the edge of starvation.
That evening, as they shared the meal she had cooked in the hearth, Ruth said, “I saw workers in the fields today. The barley harvest has begun.”
“Yes.”
“There were some men and women in the field, following the harvesters and gatherers. They were picking the leftovers from the ground. No one seemed distressed by their actions.”
“Those are the gleaners,” Naomi said. “According to our law, the widow, the orphan, and all who are struck down with poverty can have a share of every field. That’s God’s provision for them, though they work hard for it. But it is an act of His protection.”
“How does it work?”
“The Lord says that no one should reap his land to the very border, nor should his workers pick up the leftover grain after the reapers have gone through. If a laborer forgets a sheaf and leaves it in the field, he is forbidden to go back for it. So the gleaners gather what they can. Not every landowner is generous. Even the most liberal of masters cannot provide more than a meager share. Gleaning is for the truly desperate.”
Truly desperate. That’s what they were. They could not afford pride.
At long last, here was a glimmer of hope. Hope that they would not starve. Instead of sitting at home and worrying, she could do something.
“Let me go to the field and glean, Mother. I will pray that the Lord may give me favor. Perhaps someone will be kind enough to allow me to glean, even though I am a Moabite.”
Naomi waved a distracted hand in assent. “Go, my daughter.”
Ruth lingered, hoping Naomi would suggest a particular field. A special landowner whose honesty and generosity could be relied upon. But other than her consent, Naomi gave no other information. Ruth had never gleaned and did not know the rules. What if she offended the foreman of the field out of ignorance? Would she anger the others with her mistakes? Would she be in their way? The questions kept her wakeful late into the night.
Early the next morning Ruth arose, drained and bleary-eyed, her muscles already aching with fatigue. She changed into her oldest tunic and covered her hair in a light veil, which she knotted at the nape of her neck in order to have more freedom of movement. She set out for the fields outside the walls of the city, not knowing which one she should approach. Please Lord, help me find favor with the right master. Guide my steps to the field of Your choosing.
Unbidden, the memory of the frog-eyed caravan leader’s unwelcome groping sprang to mind. Would she have to contend with others like him in the field? She was a foreigner, without a father or husband’s protection. If a man set his mind on violating her, who would gainsay him? Anxiety made the contents of her stomach curdle like sour goat’s milk.
Almighty God, please keep me safe from evil men and evil intentions.
Fear rose up like a mighty storm until her steps faltered. How could she do this? Face this danger? Bear this burden?
How could she not? Would Naomi not starve if she refused to glean? She must harden herself to these fears and go. She must trust the Lord to be her Father and her Husband. She was not alone. He watched over her. With determination, she put one foot in front of the other and walked.
Chapter
Seven
In times of trouble, may the LORD answer your cry.
May the name of the God of Jacob keep you safe from all harm.
May he send you hel
p from his sanctuary
And strengthen you from Jerusalem …
May he grant your heart’s desires
And make all your plans succeed.
PSALM 20:1–2, 4
Boaz shed his light linen mantle and hitched up his tunic without taking his eyes off the ram. It needed to be moved to a new pen away from the ewes, but the animal seemed unusually reluctant to cooperate. Boaz’s head shepherd had already gone for a short flight in the air and landed flat on his back thanks to the ram’s curled horns. Boaz swallowed a smile. It had been hard not to laugh at Zabdiel tumbling in the air, a comical look of disbelief on his face.
Boaz would handle the matter himself, although he did not need to. Plenty of men worked for him. Men young enough not to mind a few unintended flying leaps. But this was his prize ram, and Boaz had a soft spot for it. This same ram had sired a number of the strong, healthy lambs ambling in the nearby green pastures. Although during mating season the beast could prove irritable, it was not an ill-humored creature as a rule. Boaz could not understand its sudden quarrelsome attitude.
He maintained his distance from the riled animal for a long while, patiently waiting for it to calm down.
Boaz was good at patience.
The ram stood motionless, keeping Boaz in its sight. Deciding that the man daring to stand in his dominion required no special effort, it turned its head to examine something in the far horizon.
With the experience of long years, Boaz grasped his opportunity and took a running leap. The ram saw him coming too late. Boaz grabbed its horns before it could knock him down and twisted the proud head to one side, then down. In brute strength, the animal stood far superior to the man. But Boaz had a few tricks up his sleeve and wrestled the animal to the ground, unharmed. Zabdiel helped him transfer the now tired beast to its new, commodious pasture.
Fetching Boaz’s mantle, Zabdiel held it open for him. “The wealthiest man in Bethlehem, respected throughout Judah, and you have to wrestle your own ram. Why not let the rest of us do the work? That’s why you pay us, my lord.”
Boaz bent down to straighten the ties of his leather sandals, which had grown twisted in the tussle. In spite of Zabdiel’s teasing remark, Boaz knew he had earned his admiration by the way he had dealt with the animal. His men appreciated working for a master who shared in the rigors of their labor.
“Every once in a while I like to show you young ones how it’s done,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Besides, I can’t let you have all the fun. Nothing like a good challenge to make a man feel alive.”
Folding his arms against his chest, he leaned against a majestic palm tree—Melekh’s tree. Against all odds, Melekh had lived a few more years after Judith’s death. Boaz had never known a dog to live so long. Where Boaz went, the aging dog followed, limping after him with single-minded persistence. When Boaz wept, the dog put a paw on his lap and whimpered softly. When he could not sleep, Melekh stayed awake, thumping its tail softly, biding through the hard night hours with Boaz. Following the hardest years after the death of his wife and children, Melekh stayed by Boaz’s side, like a wizened champion sent to keep him company. When finally the dog took its last breath, full of years and almost blind, Boaz buried it here, in its favorite field, and planted a palm over the spot as a memorial.
“A good dog, that Melekh,” Zabdiel said.
“The best.”
The unexpected voice of a woman cut into Boaz’s memories. “What a spectacle, cousin. I hope you haven’t broken any bones.”
Boaz stifled a groan. Miriam. He had a tender spot for his wife’s cousin, as long as she stayed far away. Up close, she could prove trying. “My bones are still in right order. Welcome, Miriam.”
“I went to the house and Mahalath said I could find you here.”
“Zabdiel, please fetch Miriam a cup of sweet wine.”
He led the way toward the shade of a barn. A couple of simple wooden stools rested against the wall and he motioned for her to sit. “What brings you to me today, Miriam?”
“Does a woman need a reason to visit her cousin? Speaking of cousins, have you heard that yours has returned to Bethlehem?” Miriam’s face shone like a lampstand.
In many ways Boaz found her an amiable woman. Except for her more than common interest in gossip. “You speak of Naomi, I presume?”
Miriam’s brightness dimmed. “You’ve heard?”
“The day she arrived. She has been burdened with unimaginable sorrow. May the Lord help her to bear her affliction.”
Miriam took a sip of her wine. “You understand, better than most.”
Boaz said nothing, his face growing blank. Noticing his cold reaction, Miriam went on quickly. “Elimelech was a good man. And her precious sons! Who can believe they are gone? But at least she is not completely alone.”
“She returns with a Moabite daughter-in-law, I understand.”
Miriam nodded. For once, she did not rush into speech, which Boaz found curious. He had been certain she would jump into a long discourse on the horrors of becoming kin to an untrustworthy foreigner.
“Her name is Ruth. She’s not what you might expect from a Moabite.”
“No?”
“She left her family and her home to accompany Naomi here. Naomi released her from the duty, but she would not be dissuaded, not even when Naomi made it clear to her that she had no prospects for a future in Bethlehem. You should see the way she cares for Naomi—better than a real daughter.”
In spite of himself, Boaz found his interest sparked. “She abandoned her home for Naomi’s sake? But I heard Naomi was poor.”
“Close to starving, I’d say. Ruth clings to her for love. She’s given up her whole life, I fear. The women of Bethlehem cannot overlook her heritage.”
“Perhaps she will win them over with her affection for Naomi.”
Miriam made a face. “Criticism is rarely won over by love, Boaz. Putting her down makes them feel important. Superior. It’s not a pleasure to be given up easily.”
Boaz thought over her words; though they were harsh, he knew that often they proved true. Compassion washed through him at the plight of this woman he had never met. What courage it must have required to leave behind her home for an unknown destiny. He couldn’t help but admire her for it.
Miriam stayed awhile longer to chat about a small piece of land with which she needed help. When she left, Boaz looked toward the sun, narrowing brown eyes against its bright light.
“It must be close to noon,” he said to Zabdiel.
The head shepherd looked up. “It is, my lord. Running late?”
“Very late.” Boaz frowned in annoyance. The delay threw the whole day out of order. Harvest required close supervision. Thanks to his rambunctious animal and Miriam’s unexpected visit, he would now be unable to maintain his planned schedule. With a quick recalculation, he decided to ride to the closest barley field, which he had not intended to visit that day.
He signaled the servant to prepare his horse and swung on the beast’s back before it had come to a full stop. He found the ride exhilarating as he galloped through uneven roads, with the wind blowing his mantle like ship sails behind his back.
He was no longer young, nor was he old, but in the middle years when a man has the advantage of experience and still enjoys the vigor of youth. A fast ride had the power to thrill him as much as it had the first time he had climbed on the back of a horse. He noticed a hawk as it soared above him and Boaz forgot his annoyance and grinned for the joy of being alive, when all the sweet blessings of nature conspired to make the world beautiful.
He could see the barley in his fields, full and bursting with goodness, waiting to be cut down. Waiting to feed his many servants and their dependents. He planned to store a good portion of this harvest. The rains were fickle in his part of the world. With wisdom and judicious planning, he could ride out the famine years, like Joseph in Egypt.
The reapers came into view, and Boaz slowed his horse and turned in their
direction. “The Lord be with you!” he cried, as he jumped to the ground and handed the reins to a waiting servant.
“The Lord bless you!” his harvesters replied.
It had become a familiar refrain, this prayerful greeting between master and servants. It would have been enough for Boaz to wish his workers shalom—the peace of God. Polite enough. Gracious enough. But Boaz liked to bless them with more. And the workers had learned to respond in kind.
His foreman, Abel, came to greet him. Young and brown-skinned, Abel had a long, handsome face with faint laugh lines around narrow eyes.
“How goes it, Abel?”
“See how far they have come?” He pointed to the eastern border of the field. “All this in half a day.”
Boaz examined the progress in the field with satisfaction before turning his attention to the laborers. Some of the men and women were his servants. Others were only hired for the harvest season, though he had come to know them through the years. Using sharp sickles, the men cut the grain in bunches and carried them until the weight became too great to carry. Then they simply dropped the armloads to the ground. From behind them, the women came, bundling the cut barley into sheaves, which would later be carried to a barn. Last came the gleaners.
Though he had never tasted of poverty, Boaz had a soft spot for the gleaners who had no way of feeding themselves other than the bounty of God and the generosity of landowners. He recognized a few widows, and one man who had lost his hand years ago in an accident when his cart had overturned on a rainy day. His infirmity rendered him unable to work for wages since he could not keep up with other men. Instead, he gleaned and depended on the additional largess of neighbors and family.
There were several new gleaners. Among them, Boaz noticed a young woman, tall and willowy, bent over to her work. He could tell she was unfamiliar with the task, though she seemed to give her full strength and focus to it. The angle of her head prevented him from seeing her face. Then she straightened her back to stretch for a short moment. Boaz felt an unfamiliar tightening in his chest.