In the Field of Grace (36 page)

Ruth was large with child and Boaz was large with worry. Every day, as the size of her girth increased, Boaz’s heart shrank a bit
further. He realized that the second portion of God’s lesson had arrived at the door of his heart.

When he had first found out that Ruth was pregnant, he had to contend with the fear that she might lose the child. Lose her grip on joy and hope and all the good things of life. Now he had to face the birth itself.

Twice, he had sat next to a woman who had travailed through the pangs of childbirth. He did not know how women bore such suffering. The first time, Judith had almost bled to death. The second time, she had succumbed to the incomprehensible affliction of birthing.

Boaz had to see Ruth through that agony! Every day brought it closer. It hung over him like a claw, ready to rip into his flesh.

This time, God offered him no gentle murmur. He extended no assurance. No promise. No words of mercy. The Lord withheld Himself. And Boaz knew this was part of his lesson. He had to hold on to faith without the great mercies of God’s conspicuous presence. He had to hold on in utter darkness.

One early morning as he was riding Khaymah with a speed that would have turned Ruth white, a word came to him.

Surrender
.

That was the lesson God wanted him to learn. He knew now, bone deep, that his son—Mahlon’s son—would live. Thrive. Have children of his own. But it was Ruth’s fate that tormented him.

That morning as he rode with the sun on his back and the wind ripping into his tunic, he understood finally that he had to surrender Ruth to God. She was the one thing in his life that he had held back from the Lord. Everything else God could have. His riches. His land. His cattle. His very life, even. But not Ruth. Not his wife, whom he loved with every fiber of his being. He had held Ruth back. She had become the prize God was not allowed to snatch.

The thought made his muscles clench until he ached. He pushed the horse to the limits of its strength. Flattening his torso forward, Boaz leaned into the neck-breaking speed, as if he could outrun the
whirl of his thoughts. The thoughts kept steady pace with him no matter how fast he galloped.

Surrender Ruth! Let God have her.

And trust His will.

The horse’s body moved beneath him, the muscles of its shoulders and back roiling. Boaz adjusted his crouch, his body suspended in midair as he leaned his weight on his toes and ankles, gripping the sides of the powerful beast beneath him. At this speed, his balance was precarious at best, like trying to walk a line the width of a thread. One false move and he would pitch forward or flip back off the beast.

Surrender Ruth.

Lord, can’t I have this little bit of my life for myself? Can’t I have something just for me? Why do You want everything?

The horse began to sag beneath him, its steps faltering. He had driven the beast hard and long. For all its power, a horse could be a delicate animal. Pushed too far, it could sicken. Die even. Boaz knew it was time to stop.

He had to slow the beast down with gradual intention. Sudden halts after a strenuous run could lead to excruciating muscle spasms and colic. From run to trot, he pulled back the horse, until they finally slowed to a lazy walk. When they came to a stop, he grabbed a rag out of the saddlebag and rubbed the animal down with steady, firm strokes. The horse stood still under his ministrations, trusting its master.

Boaz’s legs shook from the long ride, the exercise having pushed him to his physical limit as much as it had pushed the horse. He laid his head against the horse’s side.

God had offered him a choice. Surrender Ruth. Or continue to walk in the agony of fear. Before he returned home, Boaz made his decision.

When he came to Ruth, he was calm.

“You are soaked through with perspiration,” Ruth exclaimed. “How fast did you ride that creature?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You must promise me not to ride at such speeds again.”

He smiled as he stripped out of his stained tunic. “No.”

“No? You are about to be a father. I think you should take greater care of your safety.”

“If I can live with you being pregnant and giving birth, I think you can learn to tolerate my occasional brisk rides.”

Ruth’s eyes rounded. “Those are not the same at all.”

“Perhaps not. But they both require that we surrender one another to God’s care.”

“I wouldn’t have to surrender anything if you would only be reasonable about the speed with which you ride.”

“Think of my riding as a wonderful opportunity to draw you nearer to God.” He patted her belly and grabbed the washcloth.

The birth was taking too long. The Egyptian physician, whom Boaz had brought back two weeks before in preparation for this very day, sat next to the old Jewish midwife, his pate shining with sweat and his mouth sealed with tension. The midwife had stopped speaking ten minutes before. Ruth was peripherally aware of the ominous silence that surrounded her.

Pains came upon Ruth with cruel frequency, taking most of her focus. The child would not come. She had little knowledge of childbirth. But in the midst of her misery and growing weakness, she could sense the concern that had settled in the room like a heavy shroud.

“What’s amiss?” she panted between one wave of pain and the next.

“You are doing well, mistress. The child is large. He lingers. In time, he shall come,” the Egyptian whispered.

Ruth rode out another pang, swallowing her screams, not wanting to fill the household servants and Boaz with dread. The midwife stood and examined Ruth. Her intrusive fingers made Ruth groan.
“This child is coming sideways. I’m sure that is what delays the birth.”

The Egyptian pushed and prodded the dome of Ruth’s belly. “It’s likely.”

Their examinations added to the pain that already ripped through her, and she squeezed Naomi’s fingers until they must have turned blue. As the pain let up, she loosened her hold. “I’m sorry, Mother. That must have hurt.”

Naomi chewed on dry lips. “I will fetch Boaz.”

“He will only be dismayed and feel helpless,” the Egyptian warned. “He can offer her no assistance. We don’t need a distressed husband complicating an already difficult situation.”

“Whoever heard of a husband in a birthing room, Naomi? Having a man here is bad enough.” The midwife threw an accusatory glance at the physician.

“Boaz can pray for her.”

Ruth tasted blood as she swallowed. “Please. Bring him to me.”

Naomi turned toward the door. Ruth forgot the thread of her words as pain ripped through her belly and back. For a moment she thought that her body had torn asunder. The scream she had bit down earlier escaped her lips.

The Egyptian bent low to examine her again. He shook his head. “Her travail leads nowhere. The babe is caught.” Even in her distress Ruth could sense the brittle note of doubt in his voice.

Naomi returned to take her position behind her, rubbing her aching back as Ruth leaned against her, feeling weak and dizzy.

She sensed Boaz as he sat near her and reached out to take hold of her hand. “He is slow, our son.” His voice was calm. A strange peace radiated from his countenance.

Ruth smiled, relief flooding her at his presence. “Yes. I shall have to speak to him about that when he finally deigns to emerge.” A low grown broke from her lips before she could strangle the sound.

“If you are trying to be brave for my sake, you should give up. I already know this child is going to be born strong and healthy. I
was thinking of the name Obed. Do you like that name?”

Boaz’s calm began to sink into Ruth’s consciousness. She felt the tension leave her body. “Obed?”

“It means
worshiper. The servant of the Lord
. I think that would be a good name for our son. Would Mahlon approve?”

Another pain came. Yet strangely, this one did not feel like an endless wave that went nowhere. Ruth could feel her body shifting. Opening.

“He would approve,” she panted. “The midwife says the child is coming sideways, with his shoulder first, instead of his head. He is caught.”

“I will pray for you both, my love.” He laid broad hands over her belly and began to pray. Ruth was sinking past consciousness so that his words flowed over her in syllables of noise, making no sense.

Another sharp pain crashed through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, pulling her knees closer to her chest, trying to escape the agony. Scream after helpless scream made her throat raw. Something wet gushed out of her.

“She bleeds,” the midwife cried. “She bleeds too much!”

“But look! That’s the head,” the physician said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t understand it, but the babe must have righted itself. Another push, mistress, and the head will emerge.”

Boaz continued to pray, his hands on her belly, his voice a soothing murmur that calmed her. Ruth grew quiet. From somewhere she found the strength to give another mighty push. The room started to spin. She lost sight of everything but pain.

A feeble cry filled the room. Her child! That mewling sound was enough to revive her. Boaz caressed her hair back off her cheeks. She tried to kiss that beloved hand, to hold it against her. She found she was too weak to do anything but flop back against Naomi’s chest.

“A boy. You have a son, mistress,” a man’s voice cried.

“Is he healthy?” Her voice came out a thread. She worried that they might not hear her.

“Perfectly made, and as large as a two-month-old babe,” the midwife said.

Taking a shallow breath, Ruth asked, “Can I hold him?”

“Here, my dear. Let me lay him on your chest.” Boaz laid the baby, wiped down with olive oil and salt and wrapped hastily in swaddling cloths, against her.

Love. She had not known it could drown you like a rolling ocean. Tether you like a rope of iron. Heal you like a balm. She held her babe and forgot the world.

A gentle touch wiped her cheeks, and only then she came to herself enough to know she was crying. “Boaz! Is he not beautiful?”

“He is perfect.” Boaz leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Best give him to Naomi to hold now. You are weak from the birth.”

Ruth did not want to let go of her son. Not even for a moment. Then she thought of Naomi and all that she had borne. Willingly, she offered up her baby, believing him to be a miraculous salve that could heal the deepest wound in Naomi’s heart. “Here, Mother. You hold Obed. Hold your grandson.”

Ruth began to shake violently and could not stop. Her teeth chattered. The room began to spin again and she could not collect her thoughts. She heard voices ebbing and flowing in urgent whispers around her. Boaz’s face came into focus. Tears ran down his face, like spring rains, without stopping.

He bent low and whispered something into her ear. She could not hear his words. He kissed her on the lips once. She wanted another. His mouth felt warm and comforting against her cold lips. Another great gush of warm wetness emerged from her body. Her head fell back. Darkness descended like a soaking woolen blanket through which she could not breathe.

R
uth was caught in a deep sleep for three days, neither dead nor alive. She did not seem to hear them when they spoke to her. At Boaz’s request, Dinah, whose own baby daughter had been born two weeks earlier, moved into the house with Adin and their children. She nursed Obed alongside her own little girl.

She was the one who insisted that they place Obed on Ruth’s breast two or three times a day, encouraging him to suckle. “When she awakens, she will want to feed him herself,” she insisted. “We must not allow her milk to dry.”

“There’s no milk,” the midwife would say, grumbling under her breath.

“Not yet. But he suckles and that will help her body produce the milk in time. Besides, she can sense him, I am sure. He is a comfort to her. And when she recovers, she will be relieved that he already knows her.”