Naomi, now bitter Mara, was the other hand extended. She too was bent and low, muttering bits of anger and flustered over her long robe, tripping on it across the room. Her hair was stringy and tears had dried down her wrinkled, dirty cheeks. How much more to weep? How much more to loose? Her husband, her sons, her safety. And who was she left with? Just two daughters-in-law and a few shingles, hardly enough to make the trip home. And what was home anyway? Without her men, without her heartbeats of life, what was worth going forward for anyway?
The three walked, grudgingly but trustingly, hardly a glimmer of goodness keeping their splintered and calloused feet on the dusty tracks. Tears had broke down their cheeks for so many hours and days, none could be left to find. Water was scarce in this dry land and their days-old bread crumbled in their cloth sacks. Few words were exchanged between them. Only a few stories of their buried men, and an awkward good-bye to Orpah.
Dear Ruth, her heart was shattered. Her ways so unknown, and now she lingered nearly alone except this woman lawed her mother-in-law, who was sputtering obscenities with each step. What lay ahead? Who were these people she was going to? Would they care about her? See her? Accept her? Would she find a friend, a confident? Would there be work and wages and a place for her to labor?
The settling started hard. They got to the few shacks on the end of town and a few relatives greeted Naomi, Mara, with hugs. But she was unresponsive. To some she hugged in return, to others she shook her head, finding little strength to share her struggles. Others came up with glee to greet their long-gone friend, but even with that she shuttered, unable to find the joy they knew. They told her God was faithful, a covenant God of promise, but she hardly had hope to care.
Ruth listened, and outsider, about this God, this one who she was hearing to trust to never leave, to always be with her. She knew him so little, but was learning to listen, to hear, to lean in to these people who believed him for so much greater. Yet, who was she? An outsider, a widow, a childless woman.
She spent her days in the fields, threshing and picking and gleaning and beating wheat. Hours upon hours she lived in the labor, sun beating down over her cloak, nights spent bent around the fire. As days unraveled to months, she started to see Mara's anger fray, started to see her allow the others in, started to see her rekindle and make friends, join in the journey to the watering hole, and barely tilt her lips to smile, and on rare occasions, find the audacity to laugh.
Their story was a long one, one of such wondering, of such wandering, of such faith. But a story that spent countless hours of simply trusting, simply living, simply beating down the wheat on this threshing floor.
The day came when the Master of the land was seen, rugged and handsome, gloriously confident and kind, like a prince. Ruth's heart caught in her chest, startled then scared at her own reaction. She wasn't supposed to let her grief end, she was supposed to live in sadness or this new-found safety of the land, she wasn't supposed to - gulp - hope.
But he was there. Regal and rich, wealth of fields and lands and workers and barns. Gorgeous in his cloak, a bearded mane falling down from his face. Stunning.
She didn't dare tell Naomi, Mara, for it seemed to shame the love of their dead. It seemed to demean the earlier days. But then Naomi noticed. She saw Ruth's face as she shared about him, noticed the tender giggle return to her cracked lips.
A plan was hatched, for the first time in years, two women laughed, in unison. They plotted and shimmied and pranced with strange fear and hope and all the girly impishness they remember from when they were thirteen.
Ruth lay there, heart beating wildly, the smell of him near, thick and musty. Her own self reeking of fragrances, recklessly wafting towards him the lure of her. Taunting him awake, uncovering his feet in the cold, willing him to take recognition of her, to notice her, to want her.
The series of days followed. He saw her all right, and he wanted her. Boaz was strong and stable, regarded as righteous and near royalty at the city gate. He worked through the people and the laws, adhering to relatives and requesting her to become his. Relishing the role of Kinsman Redeemer.
With the wedding celebrated, the fanfare and festivities commenced and simply splotches of confetti and wine cups along the roadside and floors, they lay together. Her story now winding with his. Her love now rebirthed in him. Her hope now part of his faith.
He walked out the door each morning, with a hug and a smile, his grin wide and his laughter jolly, Enormous in patience and forbearing in goodness to her. He left with extra kisses, wishing her peace and rest and winking as he walked to manage the workers.
Her days quickly became full, exchanging new friendships due to what Boaz's role afforded her. She chatted with other woman of means, spent hours at the well watching running children, and lingered long at the fields, caring over the women who were her first companions, picking up the edges and left-behind wheat.
In the evening, Ruth slivered a slice of fresh bread, grain from her husbands field, warm with softness and tenderness. She held a piece out to Naomi, now giggling with laughter, cooing with her grandson Obed in her lap. Ruth sighed, her life renewed. She thought back to months ago, the trail of grief and loss and the long dusty road of dirty and sorrow, familiar good-byes and foreign hello. And then she looked again at her mother-in-law, her husband blowing kisses from the door, and her son, cheeky and squealing on a blanket on the floor. Oh, to now trust this God who was good. Who knew in her sorrow, His hope. Who knew in her loss, His love. Who knew in her good-byes, His hello.
She bit into the goodness of risen bread, bent over her son, and puckered at her husband. Her days on the dusty road remembered, her proven obedience to His goodness secure, and her heart steadfast in His love.
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But today, I was thinking mostly on the letting go. The letting go of so much, before she even stepped on that dusty path that first chapter of the book. I was thinking of the letting go compared to my own story, blogged in condensed form here, about my Ordering the Wood for this Land of Inheritance, but having no idea what that meant at the time the journey began... And about the truths of God's promises and His leading, that He will always be with me, but sometimes that road isn't what I wanted or expect in the moment.
My own mother-in-law, Rachel Stone, and I engage in discussion often as Christians, as women, and as adherers to the Word and His promises. Recently, she shared a line I will grapple with until I grasp it fully in heaven, the truth of true surrender, true faith, true trust and belief:
"We hold on to plastic pop beads when God wants to give us precious pearls."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Dear Lord, give me the grace to accept both the dirty, barren road and the daily threshing floor. And give me the thankfulness to laugh joyfully and see your goodness in the seasons of abundance. May your mercy soften my heart to trust and see you and believe You for Your promises in both. Amen.
