Redeeming Grace: Ruth's Story

by Jill Eileen Smith

  Ruth listened and ate in silence, taking in the scene of joy, of a family gathered together in reverence.

  “And let us not forget the law,” Boaz said when the meal was finished, “that tells us to remember when we were slaves in Egypt and how our God brought us out with a mighty hand and outstretched arm.”

  Ruth watched him, leaning close, listening as he told the story of the Israelites’ captivity in Egypt, which seemed to take on new life coming from his lips.

  “And the plagues our God sent to punish the Egyptians,” one of the children said.

  “What were those plagues?” Boaz asked as the children gathered around him.

  “A river of blood.”

  “Frogs!” This from a young boy, who laughed at the thought.

  “Locusts,” a girl said in disgust.

  “Darkness,” another girl said.

  “Why darkness?” Boaz asked, coaxing the girl to look at him.

  “Because they thought the sun was God and worshiped it.”

  “Very good.” Boaz smiled and glanced up, catching Ruth’s gaze as the children continued to name the ten plagues.

  “Did you have a question about the plagues, Ruth?” Boaz asked her later, after the children had been put to bed and the adults who remained were heading home. “It seemed as though you wanted to ask but didn’t.”

  Ruth looked down and moved one foot over the stones of the court. “If I understand correctly, Adonai Elohim sent the plagues to show His power over some of the gods of Egypt—or the things they worshiped.”

  “Yes, you understand correctly,” he said softly. “Our God will have no other gods before Him. That is why He drove out the nations that lived here before us. It is why we have suffered the oppression of our neighbors when we are enticed to worship their gods. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob loves His people, but when we put other gods ahead of Him, we suffer the consequences for our actions, as Egypt did. That is why we are to remember Egypt on the Sabbath, and especially at Passover. Not only to remind us that we were once slaves, but to remind us that our God performed a mighty rescue to save us, to buy us back from slavery by His great power. He does not want us to forget, lest we forget Him and then end up despising His goodness to us.”

  Ruth glanced into his handsome face for the briefest moment, then looked beyond him. “Do you always consider Him good? Even when bad things happen?” She glanced at him, almost wishing the words back, and yet . . . she had seen the shadow cross his face as he talked with the children. His mouth spoke the words, even with the right amount of enthusiasm, but his eyes told a different tale.

  He looked at her, his brows drawn low as if assessing how to answer her. “You ask a difficult question.” His honesty and the vulnerable glint in his gaze unnerved her. “And I will tell you that no, I have not always considered Him good. When I found Adi in the ravine, I thought Him the very opposite of good. When we lost child after child, I struggled to make sense of Him, of His ways.”

  “You have suffered much,” she said, quickly glancing around, hoping no one had heard her questioning him. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  He stared at her for a lengthy breath as though he found it impossible to speak. At last he nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  She gave him a sympathetic look, then quickly moved to Naomi’s side, suddenly too overcome with shyness to say more.

  33

  The morning after the Sabbath, Ruth returned to the field, Boaz’s new basket strapped to her back and a few figs in a pocket at her waist. Liora had sent Naomi home with more food than seemed reasonable, but Naomi accepted everything with gratitude, and Ruth did not mind having something to ease her hunger during midmorning.

  The sun rose slowly, drinking the dew of the earth while it climbed, as she approached Boaz’s barley field. The fields were on a plain above several surrounding valleys that sometimes flooded during the heavy rains. Even now water still rested in them, and Ruth took the path around them to avoid having to wade through water and mud—though water and mud must be a welcome sight to the people here.

  Ruth shuddered at the thought of the severe famine they had suffered. How did the town survive so long, and why was it only Elimelech who thought it necessary to seek refuge elsewhere?

  She glanced around as she walked, realizing that there were no easy answers to the question, for Naomi had not been here to know how things fared. Perhaps one day she might ask one of the women, but for now such questions seemed inconsiderate.

  She came upon Boaz’s field, the first of the girls to arrive. How had the others managed to be delayed? She normally tried to time her arrival with theirs, but today she could not help but feel the need to hurry with the rising sun.

  She met Boaz’s foreman coming from the area where the workers had begun to harvest the rows left standing two nights before.

  “The Lord bless you today, Ruth,” Ezra said, walking toward her. His skin was darker than Boaz’s, his beard black as night. When he smiled, his round face widened.

  “And you as well, Ezra.” Ruth returned his smile, then glanced toward the area she was to work that day. “May I begin the gleaning?” She saw the men already moving through the rows with their sickles. A few more girls drew up over the rise and came into view.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Ezra said, still smiling. He looked at her, and she sensed he wanted to say more.

  “Is there something else?” She met his curious gaze.

  He tilted his head, studying her. “I have wondered something,” he said at last.

  A tickle of disquiet filled her, but she simply nodded.

  “Are you free?”

  Ruth lifted a brow. “Am I free? I don’t understand your meaning.” She was not a slave. She was here of her own choice.

  “Free to marry.” His voice suddenly dropped in pitch.

  The heat of embarrassment crept through her. Why would he ask her such a question unless . . . Was he interested in her?

  She sought an answer but could not seem to pull one onto her tongue.

  “Forgive me. I did not mean to make you uneasy. Go ahead and be about your work,” he said.

  She hurried after the other women but sensed that he watched her just the same.

  Boaz walked with Ezra later that day, counting the bundles of barley waiting to be threshed. Several men with donkeys and carts loaded the bundled stalks onto the carts to take to the threshing floor. Once the barley was fully in, they would harvest the wheat. Then the celebration of the Feast of Weeks could begin. Would he feel more connected to this festival than he had the last? Three months had brought only the faintest hint of healing. Adi’s scent had faded in the house, but evidence of her presence still lingered in every room. And the nightmares of finding her broken body still brought on a cold sweat, though when he thought on it he realized it had been days since he’d last faced those demons. Perhaps in time . . .

  “We have had a great yield so far, my lord,” Ezra said, jolting him to the present as the man jotted the numbers on a clay tablet.

  “That is good.” Boaz glanced heavenward. He should be grateful, and surely he felt some measure of gratitude that the famine had ended. If only he could have shared this good fortune with his beloved.

  “Yes, our God is good to grant such bounty,” Ezra said, glancing at him as he tucked the clay and stylus into a leather bag tied at his waist.

  “Yes.” He could not bring himself to say more, but he was in no mood to argue with Ezra over the issue of thanksgiving.

  They walked in silence behind the first cart headed to the threshing floor. He threshed the day’s yield each evening, sleeping near the grain to protect it until his men could store the grain in large clay jars and cart them back to his storage rooms the following day. There he could distribute to the needy and save the seed for next year’s planting.

  “I was wondering . . .” Ezra said as the donkey brayed.

  Boaz glanced at his friend and lifted a brow. “What were you
wondering this time?” He felt a slow smile cross his lips.

  Ezra laughed outright. “I find your people so fascinating, and your ways bring to mind so many questions.”

  Boaz chuckled, surprising himself at the ability to do so. But they both knew Ezra loved to speak in jest.

  “So tell me, my friend, what is it that you wonder?” Boaz asked as they descended the hill toward the circular threshing floor.

  “I asked the Moabitess Ruth a question today. It seems that I startled her, and she never did give me an answer. Perhaps you can answer it for me.” Ezra looked at Boaz, his dark eyes intent.

  Boaz’s stomach did a strange flip at the mention of Ruth’s name, but he told himself he was hungry, nothing more. “Go on,” he said, curious.

  “I asked her if she was free to marry. Well, at first I asked her if she was free, and I think she thought I considered her a slave, so I retried my words and asked again. But her face flushed pink and she seemed to have no response.” He shrugged. “It was a simple question. If she is bound in some way to Naomi, then she is not free unless Naomi releases her to marry again—is that not correct according to your laws?” He kicked a rock in the path as they walked.

  “Naomi is the one who would arrange a marriage for Ruth, yes. Since Ruth is her daughter-in-law, it is up to Naomi to seek a husband for her or to set her free, as she did Chilion’s wife.” His sisters had told him the tale as they had heard it from Naomi of how Ruth refused to be released. So technically, she was free because Naomi had tried to release her along with her sister-in-law, but Ruth would not have it. Would Naomi seek a husband for her here? What man would want to marry a Moabite?

  He looked at Ezra. “Why did you ask her such a question, my friend? Is your wife not enough for you that you are seeking another?”

  Ezra huffed. “Ach! Why would you say such a thing? I was thinking of you!” He winked at Boaz.

  Boaz grew silent, focusing his attention on descending the hill as the decline grew steeper. Marry again, as his sisters had suggested? What would Adi think of him? He had planned to remain as he was until God took him to Sheol to join her.

  Ezra’s touch on his arm made him look up. “I know you still grieve, my lord. But you know it is common for men to take another wife after the mourning period has passed. And I believe it has passed, has it not?”

  Boaz glanced beyond him, then away toward the threshing floor. “Technically, the three months have passed, yes. Practically, I can decide to do whatever I want to. Why do you push me?” His heart had already betrayed him too many times where Ruth was concerned. And he didn’t need the reminder that he could approach Naomi about her.

  “Because I see the way you watch her. And because it is not good for a man to be alone. Is that not part of your own Scriptures?” Ezra met his gaze with a knowing look.

  It is not good for a man to be alone. He hadn’t been alone for years, and the loneliness, the missing her, was slowly killing him, for he died a thousand deaths with every thought of a new day without her.

  “Yes, it is what God said before He made Eve.” Boaz’s mind whirled with too many thoughts. He could ask Naomi about Ruth. But he was afraid of betraying the only woman he had ever loved. And for that reason, he knew he could never ask.

  34

  Boaz lifted the heavy stick in both hands and struck the barley against the round stone of the threshing floor again and again. The process was tedious and repetitive, but slowly the kernels loosened from the stalks, the first step before the winnowing, when he could at last remove the barley from the chaff.

  He glanced up at the sound of voices. More farmers with bundles on the backs of donkeys or in hand-pulled carts entered the large area. To his right Ezra led the ox that pulled the sledge over the stalks.

  “You might try my way one of these days,” Ezra called down from above him, smiling. “There is more power in an animal pulling a sledge than that pitiful stick.” He laughed, and Boaz just shook his head.

  “I have my way, you have yours, my friend.” He smiled at the man, surprised that he truly felt the joy a man had when the harvest was brought in. Perhaps life did go on despite one’s losses.

  Voices of more men circled the stone—men positioning their grain—followed by the rhythmic pounding and stomping of threshing.

  “Well, cousin.” Melek’s voice made him pause. He glanced beside him. “I see you beat us to the threshing floor as usual.” Melek entered with Hamul, who wore his perpetual sullen expression.

  “It is not a competition, Melek. We simply finished earlier than normal today.” He put his weight into flailing the stick against the barley, his almost jovial mood dampened.

  Melek pulled a stack of his own barley from the cart and handed it to Hamul. “Don’t be idle. I don’t have all night.”

  Boaz stopped mid-swing and studied the boy, but his expression now seemed unreadable. Hamul took up the stick and began the work while Melek stood looking on.

  “You might finish more quickly, cousin, if you help your son.” Boaz met Melek’s gaze. The familiar irritation he always felt in this man’s presence caused his jaw to clench.

  “Hamul can do the work,” Melek said, his voice tense.

  Boaz lifted a brow but said nothing. The boy beat the sheaves with a steady rhythm, and Melek watched him like an overseer. Was this Hamul’s punishment for what he had done to Hava? The embarrassment he had caused his father?

  He pondered the thought as he continued to work on stack after stack of sheaves. Barley heaped high to his left and right, Ezra’s mixed with his.

  As night waned, the pounding stopped and the workers gathered to eat and drink. Boaz sat near Melek and Hamul, trying to gauge the mood of both men.

  “God has blessed you, cousin, with a goodly yield,” he said to Melek. “You will have much to share and to feed your large family.” He said the words to be polite and attempted a smile as he passed him a clay plate of toasted grain.

  “Yes,” Melek said, glancing at his son. “God has blessed me.” Sarcasm laced his tone.

  “And how is your wife?” Boaz asked Hamul, whose countenance had fallen at his father’s comment. How quickly words could wound.

  Hamul swallowed the grain he was chewing and met Boaz’s gaze. “I treat her well, Boaz. I promise I do.” He looked at his hands in his lap.

  “I am glad to hear it.” Boaz had feared the boy would not do right by a girl he had violated in the beginning, even caught himself wondering why the law would put the girl in the home of the very man who had done such a thing.

  “She is pregnant,” Hamul said softly, drawing Boaz to look at him once more. He saw the look the boy gave his father, saw the longing for him to accept this girl and her child.

  Boaz’s thoughts circled back to that night when Hava and her father stood in his courtyard, claiming Hamul had done this thing. Only a few weeks had passed. How was it possible?

  “So soon?” he asked, looking more at Melek than Hamul. “How would she know so soon?” Adi had never known until at least two moons had passed.

  Hamul glanced beyond him, then at his father, then around at the other men, who sat some distance away. At his father’s slight nod, Hamul swallowed hard. “I am not sure it is a tale you want to hear.” He clasped his hands and again studied them, as though they could speak for him.

  “Tell him anyway.” Melek crossed his arms, his sudden glare cooling the air.

  Hamul cleared his throat. “The child isn’t mine,” he whispered. “Hava was waylaid in a different field nearly two months ago. She did not know her attacker and has never seen him since.” He paused, wiped sweat from his brow. “I have known Hava all my life—we used to play together as children when our mothers met at the well or the river. I found her crying there a few weeks ago, just before she came to your court.”

  Boaz stared at his young cousin, his thoughts whirling. “So you told her to name you as her attacker so you could cover her shame.”

  The young man li
fted his chin and gave a slight nod. “She could have been stoned. An unmarried woman carrying a child? I couldn’t let that happen to her.” Hamul sighed, his gaze moving from Boaz to his father.

  “But you did not tell your father.”

  Hamul shook his head. So this was the reason for Melek’s anger.

  “You should have told him, gotten his permission, Hamul. You dishonored him by putting him to shame as you did.”

  Hamul looked at his feet. “I know.” He spoke so softly Boaz had to lean forward to hear.

  “My grandson will not be rightfully mine.” Melek spoke through clenched teeth.

  Boaz looked from father to son. So much tension between them. Would he have been in such a battle with his own son had he lived? He shoved aside the ache such thoughts evoked.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Hamul said, probably not for the first time, by the look on Melek’s face. “I should have told you.”

  “Of course you should have.” Melek’s tone carried a hint of hurt. “Do you think I would have turned the girl away when I know you care for her? How cruel do you think me to be?”

  Hamul’s brows lifted as though the words surprised him. “Her child will not be your grandchild.”

  “Of course he will,” Boaz countered.

  “Not by blood.” Melek agreed with his son.

  Silence descended among them while the conversations of the other men went on in the distance. No wonder the tension had lingered between these men. Boaz understood the hurt on both sides. “I think,” he said slowly, breaking the silence, “that you both must accept that Hamul has legally wed Hava and wants to raise her child as his own. That makes her child your family, Melek. It is up to you whether you will accept what your son has done.” Boaz saw the slight smile on Hamul’s barely bearded face. So young and hopeful and already thinking of others as more important than himself.

  “Hamul,” Boaz said, leaning across the table, “I owe you an apology. I thought the worst of you when this happened, but now I see that you were doing something none of us understood. I wish you and Hava God’s blessing.” He paused. “But next time you face something so life-changing, talk to your father. You dishonor him by going behind his back.”