In the Field of Grace (14 page)

“Is he suffering?”

Boaz’s eyelids drooped. “Yes.”

“Can he be healed?”

“Perhaps. My head shepherd has a gentle hand and a great deal of knowledge. He might be able to help the poor creature.”

Ruth noticed the tender way Boaz caressed the lamb. He owned
thousands of sheep. One more or less could not make a material difference to him. And yet he treated the helpless animal with singular care, as though he were the only one Boaz owned. As though the pain of this little lamb made his heart ache.

She thought of Naomi. Of how wounded she was, and broken. It came to her that the Lord held Naomi with the same tenderness that Boaz held his lamb. With the same care, He caressed His child, bleeding and hurt from the sorrows of life.

“What is it?” Boaz asked. “You have a strange look in your eyes.”

“I was thinking of Naomi, my lord. How she is so much like this lamb, bruised and bleeding from the brambles of life. We can become lame in the spirit the same way this creature is lame in his body.” She did not tell him of her picture of the Lord, anxious that she might appear presumptuous. Worse. He might think her silly.

Boaz’s chest expanded as he took air into his lungs. “That is a good description for how Naomi must feel. Grief is as sharp as thorns. Heavy like a gravestone. It can crush you to the bone.” He spoke with the passion of one who had tasted personally the bitter brew of mourning.

Ruth wanted to tell him she knew exactly what he meant. But it was inappropriate for a gleaner in his field to speak so boldly to the master.

He extended the lamb toward her. “Would you hold him while I mount? Then you can hand him back to me. He will suffer less that way.”

Ruth cradled the lamb, her heart beating fast, though she could not understand why. Her fingers grazed against Boaz’s hand as she handed the animal back to him after he had mounted his horse. Her mouth ran dry.

“Shalom, Ruth,” he said, and galloped so fast she lost sight of him before she had a chance to blink twice.

B
oaz handed the lamb to Zabdiel with care. “Can you do anything for him?”

The head shepherd clucked his tongue as he examined the animal. “It’s bad.”

“Find out the name of the fool who left him in that condition. A shepherd ought to have more wits about him.”

Zabdiel removed his turban and wrapped it around the lamb. His wild hair waved about his head in the evening breeze as he strode to the sheepfold, his forehead furrowed in concentration, no doubt planning strategies for saving the lamb.

Boaz went inside the house. He needed a hot meal and a cold drink. The memory of Ruth’s face haunted him.
We can become lame in the spirit the same way this creature is lame in his body,
she had said. Rich wisdom from lips too young to have learned it.

The servant brought him new wine, chilly from the stone cellar. It tasted sweet on his tongue, and he tipped the cup again. Shedding his mantle, he seated himself on an overstuffed cushion, blind to the rich colors embroidered on the sturdy wool. All the things that he wished to undertake before retiring for the night paraded before his mind: the household accounts, the report from the merchants who worked for him, the latest tally from the shepherds. He made no move to address any of it, and sat, instead, tipping his cup, wondering about Ruth.

What was it about her that played such havoc with his mind? He recalled the sheen of tears in her eyes the first time he met her, and the powerful impulse to wipe them away. Was he short of women that this foreign widow with her wrinkled garb should affect him so? Had he not had an abundance of young girls and widows shoved under his nose since the death of his wife? Not once had he been tempted to wipe
their
tears away.

No woman had affected him like this since Judith.

More than ten years had passed since he lost Judith. In spite of the needs of his body, not once had Boaz been tempted to unite his life with another woman in all that time. Judith had taken his heart. He had nothing more to give. To risk.

We can become lame in the spirit the same way this creature is lame in his body.
It was as though she had seen into him when she had spoken those words. He had a good notion how Naomi felt. Like that lamb, bruised and torn to shreds by the long, sharp thorns of the Judean hills.

Old memories, which he kept locked tight inside himself, sprung loose because of a young woman’s unknowing pronouncement. The Moabite who had wormed her way into his mind and refused to leave. He thought of Judith’s final days, her life ebbing away as he watched helplessly. The memory faded quickly, replaced instead by an image of Ruth smiling. Ruth eating. Ruth gleaning.

He shoved aside the untouched meal that the servant had served him and forced himself to rise up and attend his work. This overindulgence with thoughts of Ruth had to end. There could be no future in it. He was too old. Too worn. Too spent. She deserved a younger man. One with a whole heart who could give her a future. But even as he pulled the rolls of parchment toward him, the image of a golden-eyed girl with bow-curved lips and the grace of a gazelle disturbed his concentration.

Without warning, understanding dawned. He realized what
had drawn him so irresistibly to her the first day he had met her. Heartache and disappointment might shadow her eyes, but Ruth had a strength that made her go on. Persist. Fight. There was a strange sweetness in her perseverance. She hadn’t become bitter and hard from grief. She had grown soft and strong.

Ruth hurt. He could sense that in every expression, every gesture. But there was no hint of self-pity in her. The hardship of her life did not rule her. She bore the pain and made peace with it, and pushed on to grasp at hope.

Boaz knew the worth of such a spirit.

He started as Mahalath came in, her shy steps so quiet, he almost missed her. “May I clean up, my lord?”

He swept an arm. “Yes, Mahalath. I have finished.”

As the young woman knelt, her face turned white. “You did not like the meal, my lord?”

Boaz flinched, annoyed at his oversight. “The meal tasted wonderful. It’s not the fault of the food that I did not eat; I’m simply not hungry.”

Her pallor did not lift. Her hands shook as she gathered the bowl and the uneaten bread. Mahalath had once served Jaala, a man with cruel habits, and even though she had now been in Boaz’s employ for eight months, she still startled at every imagined shortcoming, expecting a harsh reaction.

“Did you cook tonight?” he asked, gentling his voice.

“Yes, master.”

“You know I enjoy your cooking. Worry no more about my shrinking appetite. You’ve done no wrong. Take yourself to bed, and I promise to eat heartily whatever you put before me tomorrow.”

Mahalath gave a tremulous smile. He expelled a relieved breath as the shadow of dread left her face. For Mahalath’s sake, if nothing else, he would like to knock Jaala out with a well-placed blow to the man’s straight nose. It was the only straight thing about him; Jaala was as crooked as the horn of a goat.

For three days, Boaz avoided the field in which Ruth worked. On the fourth day, he could no longer resist returning. He told himself his concern for her well-being motivated this visit. Although he had warned his workers to treat her well, he needed to make certain they followed through with his command and that she fared well. He undertook this scrutiny for Elimelech’s sake, he assured himself.

He studied her from afar, not wishing to approach her in front of others, knowing such special attention would arouse curiosity. Satisfied that the laborers were treating her with the generosity he had demanded, he spent his time with Abel, discussing the barley harvest and the good progress of the wheat crop in nearby fields. They resolved a few minor problems and made necessary decisions regarding a fight between two laborers, and a dispute over one woman’s wages.

Boaz lingered far longer than necessary in his conversation with Abel until the workers stopped for the day and began to disband. Not until everyone headed for home did Boaz mount his horse and with a plodding gait unlike his usual enthusiastic gallop made his way back to Bethlehem.

He came upon Ruth near the city gate as he knew he would. She walked alone, her bundle hefty, held with a protective arm to her side.

Boaz dismounted. “Let my horse carry that for you the rest of the way, Ruth.”

Ruth’s eyes widened. “That is most of kind of you, my lord.”

He secured her veil, bulging with grain, to his saddle and walked by her side, leading the horse by its leather bridle. “How fares Naomi?”

“She recovers slowly. Your generosity has restored a glimmer of hope. I think she despaired of life before I brought her that first bundle of barley. At least, now she believes we won’t starve.”

A fat fly buzzed near Boaz’s face and he swatted it away. “This
magnitude of loss requires more than human kindness. It needs God’s own hand.”

“The trouble is, she … cannot draw near to God now.”

Boaz considered her words. “That’s to be expected, I suppose. She reminds me of Jacob. Have you heard of him?”

“One of the ancestors of your people? Is he the one who cheated his brother of his firstborn blessing?”

“That’s Jacob. When he ran from home in fear of his brother’s vengeance, he passed through a forsaken wilderness, all alone, not knowing his future, not knowing if he could ever return home. That night as he lay down to sleep, it must have seemed to him that he had nothing, not even a cushion for his head. He had to use a stone on the ground. Can you imagine how solitary and afraid he felt?”

Without a word, Ruth nodded. The merest hint of irony touched the slant of her lips, and he remembered that she had herself, not long ago, set out on a similar journey. “Of course you can imagine,” he said, feeling sheepish. “Well, that night, Jacob had a dream—a God-touched vision that brought him hope.

“He dreamt of a ladder. Its base touched the earth and the top of it reached into the heavens. The angels of the Lord ascended and descended on the rungs, coming to earth to do His bidding among us, and returning from the world of men after completing their missions in our midst. In this forsaken wilderness, the angels of the Lord descended to do the work of Him who had sent them. The Lord Himself stood at the top of the ladder.”

“Jacob saw Him?”

“In his dream. Yes. And heard from Him too. When he awoke, he said, ‘Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.’ Jacob glimpsed one of the great truths of our faith that day.”

“What truth, my lord?”

“We travel through many wildernesses in life, be they real like Jacob’s Bethel, or wildernesses of the soul. Broken dreams, loss, grief. Sometimes there is nothing to comfort us but the hard stones of a lonely path. In those places, God seems so far away and distant.
The way He does to Naomi right now. Yet, there is a ladder that touches down into the soil of our loneliest wilderness. The angels of the Lord ascend and descend upon it, and He is Himself watchful to give us aid.