In the Field of Grace (4 page)

Her attention strayed to Orpah as the girl fanned her face. “I can’t abide the heat. This afternoon, I thought my head would bake in my headdress and drop right into the field. That would have been a mess. Knowing the foreman, he would have made me clean it up myself.”

Ruth laughed, her outstretched hand forgotten where she had moved to dip her bread into the olive oil. To her surprise, her fingers bumped into solid flesh. She raised startled eyes and collided with a warm brown gaze.

H
is skin shone pale as bleached ivory against his dark beard. It was his smile that first caught Ruth’s attention. His mouth, too wide for beauty, softened his otherwise ordinary face into the sort of friendliness that made her feel welcomed to the soles of her feet. As if she had known him for years. And she could not even tell his name! Mahlon or Chilion?

Guessing her thoughts, he said, “Mahlon.”

With a sudden jolt, she found herself wanting to giggle. “I was going to guess Chilion,” she confessed.

“I forgive you. Which is generous of me, considering when we were introduced, you disdained to look upon me even once.”

“I thought it polite not to stare.”

“Don’t worry. I did enough staring for us both.”

Ruth felt the rhythm of her pulse speed, making her breathless. “I don’t think your mother has the measure of you.”

The wide mouth flashed another winsome smile. “How so?”

Ruth nibbled on her lower lip, caught between laughter and embarrassment. “She believes you are helpless and lonesome. I think you know your way around many a Moabite maiden’s heart.”

He shook his head, looking tragic. “I hardly know any Moabite maidens.”

“How many?”

“Counting you and Orpah? Two.”

Chilion, overhearing his brother, shoved a shoulder into his brother’s arm. “Not for lack of trying.”

Naomi and Mahlon walked Ruth most of the way home. They finally turned back when she pressed them, just before she arrived at her house. As the outdoor enclosure of her home came into view, Ruth could hear the screech of her mother’s raised voice. Frowning, she picked up her steps. Though her mother’s temper bore a legendary sting, it rarely grew so noisy as to rouse the interest of the neighbors.

She shoved open the door, which someone had had the forethought to close. A wave of nausea pressed in on her as the scene inside unfolded.

Her mother was screaming, midsentence, “…and cannot abide it one more day. You are a disgusting old man. What is the matter with you? Why won’t Chemosh strike you down?”

Her grandfather stood with his head bowed, his sparse lashes lowered. His fragile hand, resting against the wall, trembled so hard that Ruth could hear the sound of his flesh beating a rhythm against the mud brick in spite of her mother’s thundering voice. On the back of his old tunic ran a long, wet stain, extending from below his waist to mid-thigh.

“You stink, old man! You’re reeking up my house.”

For an infinitesimal moment, Grandfather lifted his eyes. They were clear and filled with so much shame, Ruth stopped breathing. She wanted to beat her head against the wall. Of all the times for him to regain self-awareness!

“I’ll clean him, Mother.” She tried to inject a soothing tone into her soft voice. “It’s all right. I will take care of him.”

“You! What do you know about it, an unmarried girl?”

“I’ll manage. You’re tired. Rest. Leave him to me.”

For a moment the older woman seemed disconcerted. She smoothed back her hair, once. Twice. “It’s not my fault. He drives
me to it. Worse than a baby, he’s become. And with your father never home to give a hand, everything lands on me.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Ruth whispered again, and took her grandfather by the hand and drew him outside, grabbing a towel, pitcher of water, basin, and a fresh tunic on her way. No one else offered to help. They never did. Her sisters had no interest in an old man who had little to offer them save exasperation and extra labor. Their mother, protective of them in a way she never had been of Ruth, did not insist that they help with Grandfather. They had their chores, of course. Sewing, mending, cooking, and washing. Lighter work compared to Ruth that left their hands soft and feminine, free of the calluses that plagued Ruth’s palms.

She was grateful for the lengthening darkness, which gave her work a semblance of modesty. “I’m sorry, Grandfather,” she said. But to her relief, the old man had retreated into his shadow world again. After cleaning and changing him, Ruth took him back into the house and helped him to lie down on his mat. She covered him with his old cloak and returned outside to wash his tunic with lye.

That night as she lay sleepless on her mat, the discordant snores of her sisters filling the hot chamber, Ruth thought of Naomi’s welcoming manner and Mahlon’s encompassing smile. It occurred to her that if Grandfather lived with
them,
they would treat him with kindness. They would seek to comfort him as he grew increasingly lost in the twilight of his waning mind.

Instinctively, she knew that Naomi would bear the burden of a man who had become so much less than himself. And Mahlon would not run away to avoid the unpleasantness of it, as her father did. He would not hide in the fields, seeking the excuse of work as a way to shirk the hardship of caring for an aging parent. Life with Naomi’s family would be very different from her experience in her own home.

Ruth pushed the thought aside. It was an impossible dream.
The only thing I ever wanted was to belong.
She sighed, and buried the rising tide of that impractical longing as best she could.

For the next five days, she had little time to dwell on dreams. Grandfather took a turn for the worse, and she spent every spare moment trying to make him comfortable, trying to lift some of the weight of his care from her mother’s exasperated shoulders. On the sixth day, close to the noon hour, an unexpected knock on the open door arrested everyone’s attention.

Naomi stood near the entrance, her pleasant face wreathed in a tentative smile. “Peace,” she called out. “I am Naomi. I have come to ask after Ruth.”

Ruth ran to the door. “Naomi! Come in. How good of you to come.”

She shook her head, remaining outside. “I won’t intrude. You seem busy. I have brought your mother a fresh loaf of bread to thank her for allowing you to visit us.”

“How thoughtful.” Ruth took the cloth containing the still warm loaf. The aroma of freshly baked wheat made her mouth water. “I doubt the pharaoh of Egypt has bread so fine. Won’t you come inside and meet my family?”

Naomi’s gaze met with a frosty reception from the mistress of the house, who was crouching by the indoor fire, stirring an old pot while coldly surveying the scene before her. “Another day, perhaps,” she said.

“My grandfather has been very ill. I have had no time to visit again.”

“I am so sorry to hear it. Looking after a sick relative can be a heartache. But it can be a comfort too, knowing that you can help carry a little of their burden in their time of need.”

“Thank you. And for this, also,” Ruth said, holding out the bread. “I know my family will enjoy your baking as I did.”

“Come back and tarry with us when you can.”

As soon as Naomi left, Ruth’s mother pulled her to the side. “That woman does not hail from Moab. Not with that bumpkin accent. Where is she from?”

“Bethlehem of Judah, in Israel.”

“Israel? Have you lost your mind, running about with those people? They are backward, Ruth, and worship a strange God no one but they understand. More importantly, did you see her clothes? Ragged as a beggar’s. I don’t want my daughter associating with such people.”

“She is kind.” Ruth’s words came out stiff as a wooden plank. “She sent you this bread.”

Her mother rolled her eyes and turned away.

Every day after that, Naomi made the time to visit Ruth, always with a present in hand: a cake of raisins, a small earthenware pot of pickled capers, an armful of wild onions, loaves of barley bread. At first she refused to enter. Although she did not say so, Ruth knew that the Israelite woman could sense her mother’s hostility. In time, her mother was softened by Naomi’s persistent generosity, and while she did not descend into true hospitality, she did invite her in. The older woman’s visits became so regular that no one save Ruth paid her much heed anymore.

Naomi would bide with Ruth next to Grandfather, sometimes in comforting silence, sometimes sharing fascinating memories from her native land.

“It’s true,” she told them one late afternoon. “Once, long before my time, a woman ruled in Israel. Her name was Deborah.”

Ruth, who had learned that the Israelites had no king or prince, sucked on her lower lip. “A
woman
reigned over you?”

“She proved herself one of our best judges. We had forty years of unbroken peace thanks to her wisdom. She would sit under her palm tree in Ephraim and help people resolve their conflicts.”

“What if there had been war? How could she have coped?”

“War did come. Jabin, king of Canaan, had cruelly oppressed the Israelites for twenty years, and the commander of his army, Sisera, remained undefeated. He had nine hundred chariots fitted with iron, if you can imagine such a wonder. Who could stand against that army?

“Then Deborah, who was a prophet as well as a judge, heard
from the Lord concerning the hardship of our people. God wanted Barak, the head of Israel’s army, to go up against Sisera. It was time for Israel to vanquish its enemies. Do you know what Barak said?”

“
What?
” Grandfather cried without warning. Ruth and Naomi stared at each other with round eyes.

Naomi cleared her throat. “Barak said he would go, but only if Deborah went into battle with him.”

“A mouse?” Grandfather interjected.

Ruth and Naomi looked about them, alarmed.

“Or a man?” Grandfather continued.

“Oh, you mean Barak?” Naomi laughed. “A cross between the two, I imagine. This war required faith. Faith that the Lord had more power than the iron chariots of Canaan. Faith that God could overcome in the midst of an impossible situation. Deborah had enough faith to cover Barak’s lack. She told him that she would certainly go. But she also foretold that he would lose the highest honor in spite of winning the victory.”

“She rode into war?” Ruth’s voice came out high. “What happened?”

“Deborah didn’t actually fight in the battle, but she went with the army and gave them the confidence of her faith. Sure enough, as God had promised, Israel routed Sisera’s army in spite of his nine hundred unconquerable chariots.”

“That’s an astounding victory. Did she offer a great sacrifice to the Lord? One of her children, perhaps?”

Naomi’s face scrunched as if she had drunk sour milk and desperately wanted to spit it out. “We don’t sacrifice humans in Israel. Life belongs to the Lord. It is not for us to destroy.”

Ruth gave a slow nod of her head. “You serve a merciful God.”

“Yes. Thankfully.”

“Tell me, what became of Sisera and Barak?”

“In the midst of the melee, Sisera managed to flee on foot. His heart must have brimmed with relief when he made it unharmed to the tent of a woman named Jael. Sisera imagined himself safe,
surviving to fight another day, because Jael’s absent husband was on friendly terms with King Jabin. But he miscalculated. Exhausted, he fell asleep, and Jael killed him with a tent peg. So you see, the great commander lost his life to a woman, and Barak lost the glory of vanquishing his greatest enemy.”

“So Deborah prevailed?”

“She did. The name of Deborah lives on for all generations as a woman raised up by the Lord to deliver our people.”

“Your God used a woman to fulfill His plans for your people?”

“You never know who the Lord will use. Perhaps one day, it will be you, Ruth.”

Ruth chuckled. “Not unless He is very desperate. By the sound of Him, I don’t believe He is. What do you think, Grandfather?”