by Tessa Afshar
After that, Ruth prayed to the Lord with increasing frequency. It wasn’t a calculated, well-examined decision. She gave it no thought. She made no conscious change of allegiance in her faith. She just clung blindly to the One who seemed to bring her a strange kind of relief.
On the sixth week after the burials, they started to run out of provisions, and the young women had to go into the fields to work. The owner of the field knew them because their husbands had labored for him many years. Out of pity, he hired them to work alongside his other female workers. He wanted to clear a new field for the next season of planting, and add irrigation canals, which would allow his land to get the most out of the seasonal rains. Laborious and unending, the work of removing stones, pulling out brush, and digging canals stretched their strength to its limit.
At the conclusion of their first day, when they returned home, they found that Naomi had roused herself to cook them barley stew. It was watery, lacking salt and the herbs that the older woman normally used with expertise. No bread accompanied the modest meal. But this tasteless stew came as an offering of love from a woman whose grief had paralyzed every impulse toward activity. Ruth and Orpah ate their meal, knowing it had taken a valiant effort for their mother-in-law to rise above so much pain and perform the mundane tasks of every day.
“When Elimelech made us leave Bethlehem, it was to give us a better life,” Naomi said after they finished eating.
Ruth’s mouth opened slightly. It was the first time Naomi had spoken a full sentence since the loss of her two sons. She gave a nod of encouragement, hoping the older woman would continue.
“He came to Moab to save our lives. He came to protect us from starvation and death. And what has happened? My husband is dead. My sons are dead. And we stand on the brink of starvation, for how are three lonely women to make a way in this world? He brought us to Moab to save us. Instead, we have met our doom here.”
Ruth leaned forward and caressed Naomi’s arm. “We’ll take care of each other. You aren’t alone. You have Orpah and me.”
Naomi turned her face away and sank back into silence.
Ruth pondered her mother-in-law’s words. The irony of it cut like a sharpened scythe through heads of young wheat. The irony of a man who had made a hard decision in order to keep his family safe, only to lead them into death. Would they have lived safer lives if they had remained in Bethlehem?
For her part, Ruth could not regret Elimelech’s decision. If not for the man’s choice to abandon his home and his people, Ruth would not have met Naomi and her family. She would not have known the happiest years of her life, or experienced genuine love and acceptance.
Week followed week. Orpah and Ruth worked hard, but at the end of each day, they brought home barely enough to see them through the day. They needed more savings to provide for the approaching months between harvest and plowing, when there would be little opportunity for work. They used their meager spare time to plant their own garden with vegetables and herbs that would augment their table. Harvest season approached. Perhaps they would be able to increase their income then.
Naomi walked to the well to fetch water. With the girls gone most of the day, she had to force herself to do the urgent chores that could not be left undone. Most of the time, she wanted to remain on her pallet, buried under her cloak. She wanted to forget. What did food matter, or water? Her sons were gone. Why should she stay alive? But the Lord had left her to live while her children lay under the earth.
Ruth and Orpah were her only reason for living now. As the elder of the family, she was responsible for them. Sometimes she resented them for that unwanted responsibility. At other times, she clung to them not only for their own sakes but also because they were the only legacy left behind from her sons.
For the first time that morning, she noticed the fresh green leaves on the trees. It was as though she had slept through the waning winter months and missed the start of spring. Once home, she went through their stores and became aware that they would not survive long-term. Not with just two women working. She needed to join Ruth and Orpah in the field.
The next morning she rose and prepared herself before the young women were awake. Ruth came to a halt when she noticed her waiting by the door. “Naomi! Where are you going so early in the morning?”
Naomi took a calming breath. “I am coming with you to the field. You need my help.”
“You are most welcome,” Orpah, her practical daughter-in-law, said. “We can use an extra pair of hands.”
Ruth bit her lip. Although she made no objection, Naomi could sense her concern. As they walked to the farm, she lingered near Naomi, her long-legged steps moving with the grace she did not realize she possessed, her hand waving insects away from Naomi’s face.
In the field, Naomi worked alongside the girls. They had not gone far when she felt a stitch in her side. Sweat dripped from her brow. She moved slower than the other workers and found it impossible to keep up.
“Come, Mother,” Ruth said. “Sit under the shade of this palm and rest. This is no work for you.”
At first, Naomi resisted Ruth’s pleas. Then she realized that she would collapse and be more trouble than help, and gave in. She felt useless. Why did God leave her on this earth? She was of no benefit to anyone, more bother than blessing.
By midday, the other workers joined her. Some had brought a modest repast, which they enjoyed while speaking to one another companionably.
“I beg your pardon,” Naomi whispered as she knocked against someone’s arm by accident.
A portly woman with carefully plucked eyebrows turned to her. “You are Mahlon and Chilion’s mother, aren’t you? I heard of their deaths. I am sorry.”
Naomi nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Will you go back to Bethlehem now that they expect such a rich harvest?”
“Do they? I had not heard.”
“My cousin traveled through there last week. He said Bethlehem is enjoying unusual abundance this year. Grain is bursting out of the ground like weed. He walked through field after field of maturing barley and wheat. Better than anything he has ever seen in Moab, he said.”
Naomi frowned. “The Lord must have visited His people,” she said under her breath.
With sudden clarity, an image of Bethlehem came to her, the city peaceful when the dew descended, people preparing somnolently to go to work. She remembered the sound of prayer in the assembly, the smell of roasted grain picked fresh from the fields, the feel of friends’ arms wrapped about her as they laughed at the day’s absurdities. She remembered feeling at home. Feeling safe.
For the first time since losing her sons, something like a shaft of longing pierced her heart.
Ruth shook the mat before wiping it with a wet cloth. She was returning it to the chamber when Naomi said, “I think we should return to Bethlehem.”
Ruth stumbled. “Pardon?”
“The Lord has blessed Judah with an abundant harvest. Why linger in Moab? Perhaps in Bethlehem He will see us through the winter. We leased this house and its land; it doesn’t belong to our family. We can walk away and go back to my home.”
Ruth sank to the floor. Her mouth turned so dry she could not swallow. Leave Moab. Abandon the only place she had ever known and go to Judah where she was an unwelcome stranger. The Israelites were not fond of Moabites, and Moabite women had a terrible reputation among them. Other than Naomi and Orpah, she would probably find herself ostracized.
“Whatever you wish, Naomi. We’ll go to Judah.” She forced her tongue to form the words for Naomi’s sake.
Orpah, who had been a silent witness to the exchange, threw Ruth a horrified glance. Ruth gave her a reassuring nod. She could think of nothing to say that might bring her sister-in-law a measure of comfort.
After selling what they could, the three women piled their belongings into a dilapidated cart. Not much to show for three lifetimes. A few clothes, several clay jars of pickled capers, olive oil, salt, lentils and chickpeas, d
ates, three squares of sheep cheese, a reed basket filled with dried herbs, two flint knives, several skins of water and new wine. A handful of woven mats, frayed at the edges. A two-handled bronze saucepan, chipped bowls, rough wooden spoons, a small hand mill, a few odds and ends.
They had used the last of the wheat and barley to make bread for the journey. They didn’t even have an extra pair of sandals between them. Ruth tied her headdress more securely around her head and tapped the old donkey on its skinny side. They would be fortunate if the beast did not keel over halfway to Judah.
Naomi had decided to travel on the road to Moab, a secondary highway that would take them through the southern tip of the Salt Sea, before bending northward toward Israel. For Ruth, who had never left Kir-hareseth’s borders, the journey loomed like a threatening thundercloud, though it would likely last less than a week.
Naomi had told her that they would descend through the high hills of Moab, into the lowlands surrounding the Salt Sea. “It’s a hard journey,” she said. “We’ll pass through some cities. But much of the road is barren and harsh.”
The sun had yet to rise when the three women began their journey toward Bethlehem. Ruth and Orpah had taken leave of their families the day before. Ruth’s goodbye had been brief; none of her sisters had even embraced her. Her parents had patted her shoulder with as much affection as they showed the family goat. They had kept their distance in the past four years, and now that she was a poor widow, they had even less interest in her.
Orpah had red-rimmed eyes that continued to shed fat tears as the donkey began to pull the cart. Leaving came harder to her. She loved Moab.
They would begin by traveling northwest to Bab edh-Dhra, in the opposite direction of their destination. The road to Moab bent in the shape of a horseshoe here, going first the wrong way, and then turning back downward, which made the descent through the hills easier. They intended to stop and rest at Bab edh-Dhra over the noonday hour, before journeying south to Numeira.
They had only traveled until the third hour of the day when Naomi came to a stop. Ruth halted the donkey’s progress. Before she could ask Naomi why she had interrupted their journey, the older woman lifted up her hand.
“This is not right. You must return, both of you, to your mothers’ house. Why come to Bethlehem with me where nothing good awaits you? No husband, no security, no certainty, no old friends. Stay in the land of your fathers.”
Ruth’s heart skipped a beat. With dumb incomprehension, she beheld her mother-in-law, nausea roiling in her belly.
If Naomi had any idea how Ruth felt, she gave no sign of it. Instead, she went on, her tone hard, brooking no argument.
“You girls are the most precious things I have left in this world. You have treated me well since the day I met you. May the Lord deal kindly with you, as you have dealt with my dear sons, and with me. Go, knowing that I do not take that kindness lightly. I’ll cherish it as long as I have breath.
“But now you must return to your homes. May the Lord grant that you find rest, each of you, in the house of a new husband. May He give you men worthy of your sweetness.”
She kissed Orpah on both cheeks and then turned to Ruth. Taking her face in calloused hands, she kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her hair. Her lips were dry, scratching where they touched. “My sweet daughters.”
Ruth could no longer hold in her tears. She tried to swallow the sound of sobs, but they burst out of her with the bitterness of new grief. Naomi was casting her out. Naomi did not want her. Orpah, already grieved, added the sound of her own cries to Ruth. The donkey looked up at the women wailing on the side of the road and shook its head until the cords of its bridle swayed on either side of him.
“No!” Ruth cried. “This is wrong, Mother. We will return with you to your people. I would never abandon you.”
Orpah nodded. “It is true. We owe you that duty.”
Naomi shook her head. “You must turn back, my daughters. Why would you go with me? Can I provide for you? Give you new husbands? Do you think this old womb of mine could birth other sons who would grow up and take you to wife?”
Ruth gulped at the bitterness in Naomi’s voice. “I don’t want another husband.”
“Don’t be foolish, Ruth. How will you make your way in the world? You need a husband to provide for you. I am too old to marry again. And even if that were possible, and by some miracle I were to marry this very night and bear sons, then what? Would you wait for them to grow up and refuse to marry someone else until then?” Her voice had turned sour with sarcasm. “You can see how preposterous the idea of your coming with me is. I cannot care for you! You must part company with me, and go your own way.”
“I would never part from you,” Ruth cried. “You are the only good thing left to me.”
Naomi sank to the side of the road as if her legs were too weak to support her. “It is bitter for me for your sakes that the Lord has raised His hand against me. I do not wish you to partake of my misfortune. You are both young. You can have a new life. A chance to have a future with children and families of your own. Why should you have to bear the weight of my hardships as well as your own?”
Orpah stepped forward. “This is what you want?”
Naomi nodded. “It is.”
Orpah hesitated for just one moment. Then she leaned forward and kissed her mother-in-law the kiss of farewell. She turned to Ruth and embraced her in a similar fashion, saying in a hushed voice, “Goodbye, Ruth. I shall miss you every day.” It took her only a moment to grab her meager belongings out of the cart. Then she began to walk, her steps rapid, moving her back toward Moab.
Ruth choked on her tears. Horrified, she turned to Naomi. Her beloved family had disintegrated. Only two of them left on a road that stretched in opposite directions. And Naomi did not want her.
Chapter
Five
You brought me up from the grave, O LORD.
You kept me from falling into the pit of death.
PSALM 30:3
Ruth clung to Naomi, the way a tree clings to its root. Something pierced her heart when Naomi untangled herself from her grasp and stepped away. The donkey brayed and shook its head.
“Look,” Naomi said. “Orpah is being sensible. She has made the right decision; she returns to her people and her gods. You do the same. Go back. Go back to your land and your gods. Go to what you know, Ruth. Be practical.” At Ruth’s silence she threw up her hands. “What do you want me to do? Hail a chariot to drive you back to Moab? Be sensible. Think of your gods. They cannot come with you.”
Naomi’s words had a strange effect on Ruth. Instead of convincing her, they cut her free from every doubt. Fear melted away as she considered what Naomi pressed upon her.
Her gods?
For over three years she had not stepped into the temple of Chemosh, nor worshiped any of the other gods of Canaan. For months now, her heart had been full of the Lord alone. Naomi raged against Him with the bitterness of one who felt betrayed. But Ruth saw Him as a source of kindness. Had He not brought her, a Moabite, to taste of goodness at the hands of Naomi and her family? Had He not given her the desire of her heart? To belong? Surely He had called her out of Moab. Surely, He had given her a new family. A new name. A new home. She belonged to Naomi now. And the Lord.
The road stretched before her, a mystery marked in sand. It held two different futures, two opposing destinies. Ruth knew which direction to face.
She took a deep breath and asked for wisdom to put these new feelings into words. Words that would penetrate Naomi’s doubts. Words that would not fade through the passing of years.
“Dear Naomi, don’t urge me to leave you. Don’t press me to stop following you. For where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people. Your God will be my God. I have chosen Him and I have chosen you. To you both, I belong.
“Where you die, I will die, and no one will return even my bones to Moab, for I belong to Israel now, and there I will be burie
d. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you, my dear mother.”
Naomi took a deep breath and turned away. Ruth saw that rather than being pleased by her declaration of steadfast love, she had grown vexed. She feared too much for Ruth’s future to enjoy her loyalty. That would change, Ruth promised herself.
The Lord God will help me. I will not be disgraced as Naomi fears. She set her face like flint and put one foot in front of another, heading toward Bethlehem.
By the fourth hour of the day, the temperature grew sweltering. The women pulled their veils over their faces to protect them against the dust that arose from the rutted terrain in an unending cloud. With determination, they pressed forward and pushed themselves beyond the point of exhaustion. They could not afford to be on the open road when night descended and had to arrive at a city in time to find shelter. Even though they traveled upon a busy thoroughfare, no roads were safe for two solitary women past nightfall.
Just before dusk they arrived at the walled settlement of Numeira, where they intended to spend the night at an inn. Until this point in their journey, as they had descended down the high cliffs of Kir-hareseth, they had traversed through bustling roads. But after leaving Numeira, they could no longer travel alone and would need to join a caravan for the sake of safety. Thieves abounded the lonely stretches of the Moab road. Many fell victim to the iron dagger of unscrupulous robbers.
Most of the money they had set aside from the sale of their goods and few livestock went to the owner of the private caravan they hired. They could only afford a tiny outfit. Altogether, there were twelve in their company including the two women. The majority were passengers.
There were two men who acted as guards—one, the owner, plump and taciturn, ran out of breath when ambling up one set of stairs; the other, a skinny man with frog eyes that darted to and fro, seemed more interested in his jug of wine than in the world around him. Ruth examined their gear with suspicion. Their daggers were rusty and they carried no swords.
