Ruthless

ruth - compassion for the misery of others

I am a Moabite. I am a Moabite widow. I am a Moabite widow stuck in the middle of Bethlehem. I’m lonely. I have a grouchy old mother-in-law for company. She’s hurting, and yet does not see my pain as well. She has lost a husband, a son. I have also experienced loss. Does she see my pain? Does she not care? She deserves to be called Mara. She is bitter. Her words, her thoughts, her looks. They all flow from the core of bitterness lodged within her.

My single relief from her bitterness is working in the fields all day for food. It’s hard labor. My back aches. I’m thirsty. I’m tired. I told her “…Wherever you go, I will go; And wherever you lodge, I will lodge; Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God. Where you die, I will die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if anything but death parts you and me.” Is she here struggling with the others in the field? Is she constantly worried for her own safety? No, because that has become my job as well. My job is to care for her, to put food on the table. And now? My job has become to redeem her.

Her only good humor comes from the fact that I have found favor in the sight of a noble man, one who is known at the city gates. She urged me to pursue him. She wanted me to go to the threshing floor, and yet, let no one know of my actions. I have done as she has asked. Her only good humor comes not from me, but through Boaz, our kinsman – our redeemer.