Boaz left the servant and the other men who had joined him in the night and picked his way down the ravine, his heart pounding. Please, Adonai, no!
But the closer he got to the floor of the ravine, the clearer his vision. He would recognize Adi’s robe anywhere, and her ashen, bloodied face sent him to his knees. Her body lay at a crooked angle as though she had fallen. Adi would not fall off a ledge. She was too smart and agile for such a thing. And yet . . . she had been so ill only weeks before. Guilt and despair filled him as bile rose in his throat. One glance back at the cliff told him that the ground, perhaps from the recent rains, had given way at least a little. Perhaps the ewe had fallen first and Adi misjudged the distance to the edge? Or the soft ground?
He looked back at her face. There were no marks of mauling by a wild animal, praise Adonai, except for the caked blood in her hair. Hands shaking, he gently gripped her shoulder and turned her toward him. Looked at the back of her head. Saw the rock where she had obviously landed and hit her head.
Tears fell, and he made no attempt to stop them. “Adi.” Her name was a whisper on his tongue.
“Boaz?” Ezra’s voice called to him from a distance. “Boaz, where are you?”
He swallowed hard. The words were nearly impossible to utter. At last he turned and called, “Down here.”
Ezra’s form appeared above him. His steward looked around him and began the slow descent to the bottom, his expression grim. “She fell?”
Boaz could not speak. He nodded slowly.
Ezra glanced up again. “The clay is weak just above us. Perhaps it was too dark for her to see.” He looked at the struggling ewe not far from Adi’s body. “She was trying to rescue the one that was lost.”
His observations, true though they may have been, did not comfort. “She was more careful than this.”
“It was dark.” Ezra bent and touched Boaz’s shoulder. “She was small and weak. Perhaps she just did not see the edge.” He squatted, meeting Boaz’s gaze. “Let the men take her body and prepare it for burial. There is nothing more you can do here.”
Boaz stared at him, numb. Ezra stood and called up to the other men, who descended the ravine to carry Adi’s body from the ground and up the hill.
Ezra placed a hand on Boaz’s shoulder where he still knelt in the dirt. “Boaz, come home.” His strong arms lifted Boaz to stand.
Tears fell silently into his beard and he tasted the saltiness, not caring what Ezra thought of him. Two other men put the ewe on its feet, and Boaz numbly watched it climb the hill. Something Adi would never do again.
All he’d ever wanted was this woman to be in his life for as long as he lived. He was supposed to go into Sheol before her, not have her leave him empty and alone. Had he done something to deserve this? Held too much anger over the lost children?
Did You take her because of me?
Fear crawled up his spine. Surely not. The Almighty did not reward a man’s honest hurt with more pain. Surely the Almighty desired his good.
“But this isn’t good.”
“No, it’s not,” Ezra said as they climbed the steep hill on hands and knees, not realizing that Boaz was speaking aloud to God. But death was never good—whether physical death or death of a relationship in life. And death of one beloved was the worst thing of all.
Why, Adonai? Why did You allow this now?
His question met only silence.
Then she [Naomi] arose with her daughters-in-law to return from the country of Moab, for she had heard in the fields of Moab that the LORD had visited his people and given them food. So she set out from the place where she was with her two daughters-in-law, and they went on the way to return to the land of Judah.
Ruth 1:6–7
21
Nisan (April) 1283 BC
Naomi moved from room to room in the house now so empty, so lifeless, barely noticing the presence of Ruth and Orpah moving about like silent statues, attempting to keep up with the daily tasks. Her loom stood in the corner with the same threads clinging to it as they had the day Chilion had stumbled into the courtyard, sick. She would never weave again.
A sigh escaped, and with it the wish that she had never loved weaving garments for her family. But she had, which made the loss seem even greater. She had no family any longer, no one who needed her, no one to love. Her throat grew thick with the same grief and pain she’d felt the day Elimelech died, but this time . . . there were none to comfort.
“Mother Naomi.” She felt Ruth’s touch on her shoulder and flinched. “I’m sorry, my mother. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Naomi shook herself and turned to face this girl who had remained in her home since the loss of her sons. Two months now, and still they stayed in a house with no life. As though the place had become its own tomb.
“It’s all right, my daughter. What do you need?” Did the girls need her? What was left of her life to give them? A house with the air of death, in a land that meant nothing to her? And her womb as dead as her sons. She could have no more children to wed to these women. Why did they stay?
They feel sorry for you. Of course, that was it. The poor widow Naomi. They couldn’t just walk away and leave her. They couldn’t return to their homes to have their mothers or fathers find new husbands for them as long as they felt an obligation to her.
She glanced at Orpah, who sat in a corner, her dark eyes clouded as though she too had lost all vision of hope. The woman had wept inconsolably at Chilion’s side, while Ruth’s tears had been quieter, as though she held her grief close to her heart.
She looked again at Ruth, who still stood patiently waiting for her attention. “What is it?” she asked again, impatience rising. Just speak! She wanted to scream at the girl, to scream at the walls, at the air, at God, but she dared not. What good would it do to argue with the Almighty, who had dealt her a blow worse than death?
“Some women have come from the market,” Ruth said, pointing toward the outer court, where a small group of merchants’ wives stood huddled like gossips at a well. “There has been a caravan from Syria that took on a traveler from Bethlehem.”
Naomi’s brows rose at the name of her hometown. How long had it been since she had heard it?
“They come with news, Mother.” Why the girl insisted on calling her “Mother” when she was only her mother-in-law she did not know, but she allowed it. She had no strength to argue with these women or to send them home.
“Then we must not keep them waiting.” Naomi pushed slowly past Ruth and paused at the threshold to the courtyard. She drew a breath and lifted her head. “Welcome to my home,” she said with false cheerfulness, hoping her tone did not sound as flat as she felt. “Please sit.” She motioned to the benches of the court and looked at Ruth, who quickly retrieved cups of water for the women. “Tell me how I can help you today.” How easy it was to say the normal niceties without feeling in any way a desire to fulfill them. She felt as though lies were dripping from her lips and kindness was a thing long past.
“We thought you would want to know,” the potter’s wife said, glancing at her friends for apparent moral support. “That is, we know that you have never been happy living in Moab.” She paused as if waiting for Naomi to agree.
Naomi nodded but said nothing.
“We know you miss your own land,” another said, trying to soften the sound of the other’s words. “But your sons stayed because of the famine in Israel.”
Naomi let her eyes roam heavenward in an attempt to stave off tears at the mention of her sons. A moment later she blinked them back and looked at the speaker. “The famine in Bethlehem is what led us here, yes.” And kept us here far too long.
Suddenly, she had an urge to see her old home and the family that had remained, if any still lived—Boaz’s sisters and Neta. Did Ziva still care for the home she and Elimelech had left behind?
The thoughts churned as she met the speaker’s gaze once more. “What does this matter to me now?”
The pot
ter’s wife cleared her throat. “We have heard . . . that is . . . a passing traveler from Bethlehem said that the famine has lifted at last. The winter rains have come again and the barley has taken root. Even now it is nearly ripe unto harvest.”
Naomi stared at her. None of these women from Moab had given her the offer of friendship in all of her years near Dibon. But now that she had lost everything, perhaps they felt as sorry for her as her daughters-in-law did. Or perhaps they hoped to now be rid of her as well.
How bitter your thoughts, Naomi. But she did not care, for her heart felt nothing but pain. The Almighty had dealt her a blow that pierced sharp as an arrow. Why had He not taken her out with that arrow as well? Why punish her by letting her live? She had nothing to live for.
But Bethlehem. How strange that the sound of that word should carry a glimmer of hope.
“How long ago did the man leave?” Unfortunate that she could not have spoken directly to him. Maybe she would have recognized him as a relative or a friend’s son.
“The Syrian caravan came yesterday, and we only heard this morning. Apparently the man left the caravan before it entered Dibon. It was one of the camel drivers who gave us the news.” The potter’s wife pointed to the weaver’s wife as the one who had spoken with the driver.
“So the man never came to Moab?” Disappointment shot through her. Every man and woman in Bethlehem had probably been told of the folly of her husband and what happened to those who associated with Moabites.
“I don’t know for certain,” the weaver’s wife said. “Only that someone in the caravan spoke with a traveler from Bethlehem. No one seems to know where the traveler was headed. I never saw him.”
Naomi simply nodded. Perhaps someone had been sent to deliver a message to another kingdom. Or perhaps someone had been traveling south to Edom, though Naomi could not imagine the purpose.
“So the famine has lifted in Israel,” Ruth said, coming up beside her.
“Yes,” Naomi said, thoughts of home whirling through her head again. She glanced about, barely seeing the women who seemed almost uncomfortable sitting in her court. She had the presence of mind to thank them as they stood and hurried back toward town.
“Then we should go home,” Ruth said, taking Naomi’s hand. “If your god has seen fit to bless Bethlehem, then perhaps he is telling us to return and be blessed as well.” She offered Naomi a hesitant smile, but Naomi could not return it.
“There is no blessing left in my life.” She winced at her tone, wishing she could offer some kindness to this girl who had shown nothing but kindness to her. She forced a half smile, regretting her harsh words. “Except you,” she added, squeezing Ruth’s hand. She turned to hurry away from Ruth’s scrutiny and caught sight of Orpah standing there watching, hearing every word.
22
Ruth chewed the parched grain in silence, listening as Naomi recounted the things she still needed to do.
“I can think of very little that needs to go with us.” Naomi glanced about the sitting room where the three women sat sharing a simple meal from the early garden produce and some of the dried fruit and nuts and grains they had stored from last year’s bounty. “We will need food, of course, and one donkey should be able to carry the load. And we can take one of the goats.” She paused, her thoughts obviously far off. “Do you think anyone in town will purchase the land quickly from me, or some of the furnishings?”
Ruth nodded, glancing from Naomi to Orpah. “I am sure any number of the women will take what we cannot carry. But you will keep the loom and bedrolls and cooking utensils, will you not? We cannot travel without some provisions.”
Naomi studied her hands a moment as though the question needed much pondering. What thoughts went through her mother-in-law’s mind? Had she said something to trouble or offend her?
“I do not think I can ever look upon that loom again,” Naomi said at last, her gaze shifting to the loom that still stood in a corner and then to the window beyond it. “Elimelech built it for me.”
Silence followed the remark.
“Then you should keep it,” Orpah said, her tone confident. “Perhaps you will pass it down to grandchildren one day.”
Her words caused a gasp from Orpah herself, and she held a hand to her mouth. “Forgive me. I spoke rashly.” Emotion made her voice waver, and she jumped up and ran from the room.
Ruth looked at Naomi, who watched Orpah flee. What could she possibly say to mend such words? For the glaring truth was that Naomi would never have a grandchild and had no more children to become her heirs. Two Moabite daughters-in-law meant little to her. Didn’t they?
“I will keep the loom,” Naomi said without emotion. “But we will take only what one donkey can carry, and the goat will give us milk and cheese.”
“Only one goat?” They had a small flock, as did all families who lived outside the main city, and even some within the town walls kept more than one.
“We will sell the rest.” Naomi did not even meet Ruth’s gaze. “We cannot afford to keep them,” she said after a lengthy silence.
Ruth did not quite understand Naomi’s reasoning, but she did not argue. “I can go into town in the morning and talk to my mother. She can speak to the governor about a possible person to purchase the land.”
Naomi nodded. “Yes, that would be helpful.”
When more moments passed without comment and Orpah’s weeping could be heard from her bedchamber, Ruth slowly stood and cleared the food away. Her mother had finally wed the governor in a civil ceremony that made her a lesser wife rather than a mistress to the man, so the governor now considered himself Ruth’s father. But she would never consider him so, and she would not go to him directly. She had not trusted him in the past and she did not trust him now.
But it would be helpful if he would buy back the land he had once sold to Elimelech. Surely he would not lay claim to it and leave Naomi destitute. Ruth would search the entire town for a man to buy the land before she would allow that to happen.
As dawn crested the horizon, Ruth wrapped her robe tightly about her, took Mahlon’s walking stick, and kissed Naomi’s cheek. “I will return before nightfall.” She said the words to bring some light of reassurance and hope into the woman’s lifeless eyes.
“We will be waiting.” Naomi glanced over her shoulder. Orpah’s fingers had found use in the spindle and distaff, but she had not spoken a word since the night before.
Ruth offered Naomi a smile but did not linger. She could not help her sister-in-law, whose grief lay so deep Ruth wondered if even Naomi’s god could reach it.
She moved with hurried steps once she passed the courtyard walls, aware of every sound and the things that moved in the grasses beneath her feet. The hint of dew still clung to the blades, tickling the sides of her feet. In her early years, she would have run and laughed among the fields, and there had been times Mahlon would have run with her, caught her, and twirled her around, laughing the whole time.
She swallowed the lump that accompanied the memory. Mahlon was gone. And she had a mission to move on, to make his mother smile again.
She hurried faster until she slipped through the city gates, stopping first at the potter’s house, where her sister Susannah now resided. She rapped softly on the door, but Susannah was not abed or sleepy-eyed as she had once been in her youth. In the home of her husband there was too much work to be done.
“Ruth!” Susannah flung open the door and welcomed her sister with open arms. They held each other in a fierce embrace until at last Ruth pulled away.
“I must speak with you. I need your help,” she said.
Susannah pulled Ruth into the inner courtyard, where she could grind the morning’s grain and listen. “Tell me,” she said as she tossed kernels of wheat onto a weathered stone.
“I must find someone to purchase the land Elimelech bought from Governor Aali. Naomi is returning to Bethlehem, and Orpah and I are going with her.” The words came out softly but rushed.
S
usannah abruptly stopped the grindstone. “You’re leaving?” Her wide eyes told Ruth the news was quite unexpected.
Ruth nodded. “I will go with her. I cannot let Naomi go back alone.”
Susannah studied her for a lengthy moment, then took up the grinding again. “It is not a wise choice, but you are old enough to make that decision, I suppose.” After all, a widow did not have to return to her mother’s house. “I would not leave if it were me,” she added. “Whatever will you do in such a foreign land?”
“The same thing Naomi has done in ours all these years. Learn their ways. Take care of Naomi as she cared for those she has lost.” Ruth looked at her work-worn hands. How would she find work to provide for their needs? Surely the money from the land would help for a time.
“As for the land,” Susannah said as if reading her thoughts, “I think you will find trouble there.”
Ruth looked up and met Susannah’s gaze. “In what way?”
Her sister looked beyond her. “Mother has confided,” she said, lowering her voice. Ruth scooted closer to hear above the noise of the grindstone. “Governor Aali has been biding his time. He has seen the prosperity of the land he allowed Elimelech to purchase and his sons to keep after his death. But he will not give a fair price to get it back. In fact, I doubt he will pay anything at all.”
Ruth stared at her sister as the younger woman put more weight into turning the stone. Sounds of Susannah’s young children could be heard in the house, accompanied by instructions from their grandmother, Susannah’s mother-in-law. An ache accompanied the sound, one Ruth did not expect. How long would she be troubled by feelings of inadequacy for never having born Mahlon a child? For having no son to rest on Naomi’s knee?
She shook herself, ashamed of her selfish thoughts. She wanted a child for herself, if the truth were known. And now she would never have one.
“Then I will not go to Mother or Governor Aali,” she said, lifting her chin. “Surely someone in this town would be willing to pay a price for such fine land.” But a sinking feeling accompanied that thought, further affirmed by Susannah shaking her head.
Redeeming Grace: Ruth's Story Page 12