“You know better than that, dear sister.” She stopped to sift the grain through the sieve to remove as many pebbles or scraps of stone as possible. “If anyone dared buy that land out from under Governor Aali, you can bet they or one of their family would be chosen for the next sacrifice.” She shook her head again. “It is a risk no man in this city would take.”
Ruth sank lower into the bench, the air escaping from her lungs, her heart defeated before the sun had fully crested the rise.
“Then what will we do?”
They couldn’t stay. Naomi would not hear of it. In a flash she wondered if those women who came to tell of a traveler from Bethlehem had reported a true tale. Had Naomi’s god revisited his people and brought water to the land once more? Was the famine truly past? Or was it a ploy to get Naomi to leave so Governor Aali could have what he’d wanted all along? Land he’d never intended to let go of indefinitely. What Mahlon and Chilion had made prosperous, Governor Aali and Te’oma would take for themselves.
“I wish I could advise you, Ruth,” Susannah said, adding more grains of wheat to the stone. “But if Naomi plans to leave, the best she can do is to take what she can carry and go. No one in Dibon would purchase anything that belonged to an Israelite. And no one but the governor will lay claim to the land.”
“Then she is truly destitute.” Ruth felt as though the millstone Susannah turned had sunk to the pit of her stomach.
“You don’t have to be,” Susannah said, meeting her gaze. “Go back to live with Mother and the governor. They will find you a new husband and you will live in peace. Let the Israelite find her own way home.”
Ruth stared at her sister for a long moment. “It is a dangerous journey for a woman alone.”
“It is just as dangerous for two or three. You have no men to protect you, my sister.” Susannah’s tone had grown pleading now, and the look in her eyes held deep concern. “You don’t have to go with her. You are no longer bound to her family.”
She is right, you know. The thought flitted through Ruth’s head, but her heart rejected it. She abruptly stood, knowing she had failed Naomi already but could not fail her again.
“I am bound by duty and by love,” she said, gazing down on Susannah one last time. She would likely never see her sister again.
Susannah stopped her work and stood as well. “Will you even tell Mother goodbye?” Tears filled her eyes, and Ruth could not stop her own.
“I will stop at her house on my way out of town.” She reached for her sister and held her close once more. “I will miss you,” she whispered in her ear.
Susannah repeated the same. Soon her three children surrounded them. Ruth bent to kiss each one, tears falling freely now. The sun’s yellow rays splayed over the courtyard when she at last pulled the youngest child from hanging on her leg and bid them farewell. Sorrow welled near to the breaking point as the potter’s house slipped from view, but Ruth knew the harder confrontation was around the next bend.
Ruth entered the courtyard of the governor’s grand estate, passing beneath two guards who recognized her and allowed her to pass without question. How different life would have been for her had she wed Te’oma and lived here. How strange it would be to have mother and mother-in-law under the same roof.
She shook the ridiculous idea aside. There was no point in dwelling on the impossible, and she was very glad, despite her losses, that she had never given in to the selfish ways of the men in this house.
She waited in the entryway to be announced, and a servant came to wash her feet while she sat on an ornate wooden bench. “There is no need. I won’t be staying,” she almost said, but to stop the servant from doing his work seemed rude. The last thing she wanted was to get some poor person in trouble.
Time elapsed more slowly than if she had watched the sun move, but at last her mother breezed into the entryway and pulled her to her feet.
“Ruth, my darling! How good of you to come.” She coaxed Ruth into the large sitting area where more servants roamed. Trays of dried fruit and cheeses and nuts sat on several low tables, while sweating golden cups of cold water sat beside the couch where her mother took her seat. Ruth sat opposite her on the edge of the couch, wishing for the wings of a bird to let her fly away.
“Sit back, my love. Stay. There is no rush.” Her mother plopped a date into her mouth and pulled the pit from the center, setting it on the silver tray beside a pile of others. “There is plenty of food. Eat.”
Ruth glanced at the food, but her stomach rebelled. “I’m not hungry, Mother. I had my fill before I came.” Not nearly as much as was staring at her now, but the parched grain and dried raisin cakes with Orpah and Naomi had been enough.
Her mother pulled the goblet to her lips and drank. “Then tell me why you have come,” she said, her voice no longer quite as inviting. “Come home to beg for a place to live until Aali can find another husband for you?” She ran her finger along the rim of the cup. “Too bad for you that Te’oma has already wed two wives. You would not enjoy third place, my dear.”
I would not have enjoyed first place. But she bit her tongue lest the words slip past.
“I came to tell you that I am leaving. I am going with Naomi to Bethlehem.” She clasped her hands together to stop a sudden chill. “I came to say goodbye.”
The sudden silence was not the surprised yet pleasant kind that she had had with Susannah only moments before. The air held the foul scent of anger.
“What did you say?” Though her mother had clearly heard her.
“I am going with Naomi. We had intended to sell the land and go, but I am told by my sister that your husband will not allow the land to go to anyone but himself.” She met her mother’s gaze with sudden challenge. Could it hurt to try one last time, even though she knew without a doubt Susannah spoke the truth?
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, her gaze holding a hint of threat. “Your father owned that land, which he allowed Elimelech to rent for a time, my dear child. It never belonged to him or his sons. There is nothing for Naomi to sell.”
Ruth swallowed back the urge to tell her mother that she was wrong, but suddenly she did not know. Had Elimelech merely paid for the use of the land for a time? Would Naomi even have known that? Mahlon had never spoken of anything related to money except to assure her that all was well and growing more prosperous with each passing year.
She stood then, knowing she would get no more help from this woman who had given her birth. Certainty swept over her that Naomi had been more mother to her in the past ten years than Shiphrah had been since her father’s death.
“Goodbye, Mother,” she said, turning to go. She half expected the woman to jump up and follow her to the door, to request one last hug as Susannah had done. But no footfalls sounded upon the tiled floors, making her decision and her defeat all the more real.
23
Three Days Later
Naomi stood in the courtyard of the house for one last look at this place she had called home for far too long. Memories whispered from the walls—of conversations, love, laughter . . . and pain. So much pain.
She turned and grabbed the donkey’s reins, glancing to make sure the goat was secured to the donkey’s tether. Cooking utensils jangled from the animal’s sides, and their sleeping mats lay folded to make a seat should one of them need to ride. Sacks of grain and jugs of oil would last them until they arrived at Bethlehem, perhaps beyond if they were careful with the amount they ate.
Naomi wondered if she could eat a thing, given the way her stomach continually twisted in knots. Why had they ever set foot in this godforsaken land? Emotion clogged her throat as she urged the donkey forward.
“Are you all right, Mother?” Ruth’s kind voice jolted her from the spiraling feelings of melancholy. The girl had been such a blessing to her these past few months since . . .
The sudden image of her laughing sons brought the thoughts to a halt. They had been happy here, with these women. Why, Adonai?
“I wi
ll be fine once we reach Bethlehem,” she said, avoiding the truth that she was not fine at all. There was no sense in upsetting Ruth and Orpah now when they had a seven- to ten-day walk ahead of them.
Naomi headed them south through Moab to avoid going north and crossing into Ammon, taking the path by way of the Dead Sea. The same path Elimelech had followed, one where they might join a caravan that traveled these roads.
But as they set up camp for the night along the shores of the Dead Sea, Naomi’s heart ached with the realization that she could not ask these women to continue on with her. In another day they would leave Moab’s lands, and who knew what might happen to three women alone along the road home?
If she were harmed, she cared little. She had nothing left to bring joy in this life. She might as well rest with her men in Sheol. But Ruth and Orpah were young, vital women who deserved to have what Naomi had once loved above all else. A husband and sons. Her daughters-in-law did not need to spend their days keeping company with an old woman who had nothing to offer them but pain.
The stars illumined the night as she stood outside her tent looking out at the blackness of the Dead Sea. She would confront the girls on the morrow. The water softly lapped the shore, and she moved closer, careful to avoid its oily feel from creeping onto her sandals.
It would be hard to leave them in this land, but it was the right thing to do. They didn’t belong in Israel. She glanced heavenward, but even the stars seemed frozen in their places, without a wink or nod to indicate that their light would guide her home.
No, she would be going home alone. And in that moment she wondered if even God would be going with her.
Morning dawned too soon, but Naomi rose, body aching from the hard ground, her feet still sore from the walk the day before. She dressed in the dim light and left the tent to find Ruth already bending over the fire, cooking quick flatbread for the journey.
Orpah poured water from one of the flasks, carefully measuring just enough to wash down the bread. She handed one to Naomi. “I hope you slept well, Mother Naomi,” she said, her expression distant, unreadable.
Naomi nodded, taking the cup from Orpah’s hand. “As well as anyone does on hard soil. Though I will say at least some of the land near the water is smoother. It was just too much to risk pitching a tent right on the shore.”
“At least we would have floated if the sea had decided to crest its banks.” Ruth laughed lightly, a pleasant sound, but Naomi was in no mood to be pleasant.
She sat on the ground and accepted the flatbread Ruth had made without another comment. The three ate in silence, though Naomi’s mind was anything but quiet. She pondered a number of different thoughts, trying to figure out which way to speak to these women who had been with her for so many years. Her heart felt as though the words themselves would rip her in two once she spoke them. But speak them she must.
“I have something to say to you both,” she said at last, once the meal was done and everything packed up again. They stood near the donkey, ready to head out for another day, but Naomi made no effort to start walking.
“What is it, Mother?” Ruth’s brows drew down, causing lines to appear across her brow. “I know something troubles you.”
“Yes, please tell us,” Orpah said, her perpetually sad expression unchanged.
“I want you to go, return, each of you to your mother’s house.” She paused only a moment at the shocked look on each beautiful girl’s face. “May the Lord deal kindly with you,” she said, hurrying on, “as you have dealt with the dead and with me. The Lord grant that you may find rest, each of you in the house of another husband.”
She looked from one to the other, leaned close and kissed Orpah’s cheek, then did the same to Ruth. She choked on a sob at the sound of Orpah’s weeping. But when Ruth could not keep the tears from streaming down her face, Naomi could not stop herself from crying with them.
For the space of many breaths they all wept aloud, their posture telling Naomi that they would not be so easily convinced.
“No,” Orpah said, “we will return with you to your people.”
Ruth nodded. “Orpah is right. We will go with you. It is not right to leave you . . . and we don’t want to.”
Naomi swiped at her wet cheeks and shook her head. “Listen to me, my daughters. Turn back. Why will you go with me? Have I sons in my womb that they may become your husbands?” She placed a hand over her middle where her dead womb lay, for she knew, as her daughters-in-law also surely knew, that she was long past the days of childbearing.
“Return home, my daughters,” she said. “Why would you come with me? Am I going to have any more sons, who could become your husbands? I am too old to have another husband. Even if I thought there was still hope for me—even if I had a husband tonight and then gave birth to sons—would you wait until they grew up? Would you remain unmarried for them? No, my daughters. It is more bitter for me than for you, because the Lord’s hand has turned against me!”
Naomi leaned into the donkey, her words taking the last of her strength. Why had God been so against her? Hadn’t it been Elimelech’s decision to move them here? Hadn’t she tried to get her sons to return home, to no avail? Why then was she punished by so great a loss?
Tears came again, silent and unyielding, but Orpah’s and Ruth’s cries carried far beyond their little camp. She looked from one to the other. They knew without a doubt she spoke sense and truth. Orpah’s tears were real, but for the first time in many years, Naomi saw a spark of hope in her eyes. She was doing right by the girl in letting her go.
Orpah turned first to Ruth and clung to this sister-in-law who had also been her best friend since childhood. But at last, when their tears seemed spent, Orpah turned to Naomi.
Naomi opened her arms as Orpah came toward her, hugged her tight, and accepted her kiss of departure.
“I will miss you, Mother Naomi,” she whispered, her tone still carrying a wobble of grief.
“And I you,” Naomi said, knowing that despite the girl’s foreign ways, it was true. “Chilion loved you from the moment he first saw you.” She touched Orpah’s cheek. “May God grant you another husband who loves you just as much.”
Orpah smiled but could not speak as tears slipped down her comely face, dampening her hair, her headscarf. At last she turned, gave both women one last look, and walked back the way they had come.
Ruth watched Orpah leave, her gait slow at first, but before she rounded a bend that would take her out of sight, Orpah picked up her skirts and ran like they used to when they were girls. She would be home in half the time it had taken for them to walk with Naomi the day before. The sight felt like the twist of a knife in her middle.
Why would you leave us? But she knew the answer, had always known. Orpah had never embraced even the slightest teaching Naomi had offered, nor asked any questions about the God of Naomi’s people. She had hated Chemosh after the loss of her child, but it wasn’t enough to allow her to let go of the belief she had known for so long.
When Orpah was nearly out of sight and hearing, Ruth turned to her mother-in-law. Naomi still leaned against the donkey and suddenly seemed small and frail in Ruth’s eyes. She stepped closer, arms open. The two met in the middle and Ruth clung to Naomi, as though to part them would rip more than the fabric of their tunics.
After more tears mingled between them, Naomi pulled back. Affection showed in her eyes, accompanied by deep sorrow. “See,” she said, pointing in the direction Orpah had gone, “your sister-in-law has gone back to her people and to her gods. Return after her.”
“Please.” She took Naomi’s hand in hers. “Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” She glanced toward the road that led to the caves where their men were buried. “Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the Lord do so to me, and more, if anything but death parts you and me.”
Naomi
met Ruth’s gaze for a lengthy moment. At last she nodded and took the donkey’s reins, and the two began the long walk toward home.
24
Boaz rode his donkey from the house in Bethlehem to check on his barley fields. Passover and the Feast of Firstfruits, Reishit, would soon be upon them. How could he bear to attend either without Adi?
His stomach tightened at the memory of Adi’s joy over each harvest in the days before the famine had hit them, of her insistence they leave the edges of the fields for the poor to glean. How long would every thought of her bring pain, when she had rested in Sheol now more than thirty days?
He ran a hand over the back of his neck to keep the sweat from trickling down his back. Already the sun was nearly directly overhead. His workers would stop soon to rest in the shade and eat the midday meal. He should have come later, when he could have watched from the sidelines and escaped interacting with them. He had turned inward and avoided the townspeople since her loss, hating the weakness, the anger, that still rose within him at every turn.
Why had she gone so near the edge? Couldn’t she tell the ground was loose from the rains? If he had been there, he would have stopped her from getting so close . . .
He gripped the reins tighter, feeling the tension rise. His shoulders ached from the constant clenching, and he found it nearly impossible to relax even on his bed at night. Perhaps he would never sleep again. He rubbed a hand over his face. How dark the circles must look under his eyes. Adi would have noticed, would have told him to trust Adonai, to rest and not worry—as she had done so often during the famine.
He shook his head, willing—begging—the thoughts to stop plaguing him. He passed the young girls who gleaned in the fields behind his men. At least here these women were safe, unlike other fields where women were sometimes caught unawares. He clenched his hands at the very thought. Men could be despicable, especially in this era when too many ignored the law.
Redeeming Grace: Ruth's Story Page 13