Ruth, Mother of Kings

Part 2: Pains of a Greater Good

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LINK TO : Part 1: The In-Law of Oaths

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“I’m sorry, Naomi, the law is clear,” said Bethlehem’s elder pityingly.

“Why is it the law?” pestered Naomi with wide eyes and crooked neck.

The elder sighed. A patronizing smile followed: “Because it is our custom.”

“Ok, why is it our custom, then?”

“Seriously?” chuckled the elder. Naomi necked craned closer. Annoyance now overpowered his pity. He said, “Because you’re a woman.”

“Yes, I’m a woman. So wise. Since I’m so unfortunate to be a woman, I think my fragile, little brain needs it spelled out for me.”

The elder smirked. “Land must be worked, my sister. It is not for you to grow pretty flowers and pet your bunnies and drink with your friends.”

Naomi didn’t bite the ad hominem bait. “The land is fallow now. Is it righteous to leave land unproductive? Give it back. I’ll hire hands.”

The elder frowned. “That will never do.”

“Let me guess. Because it’s our custom?”

“I will not allow unmarried men cohabitating with unmarried women. They won’t take you seriously. They won’t listen. They’ll take advantage of you.”

“I’ll work it myself.”

The elder’s eyebrows rose. He scanned Ruth up and down. “It’s better to be fallow, then for unfit hands to degrade the soil—”

Naomi exaggerated laughing. “Unfit hands?! Look at yours! Are your fingernails so long and clean from turning pages of the Torah? Unfit hands, that’s bullshit and you know it. I worked that land side by side with my husband.”

“I don’t know why you’re blaming me? I don’t make the rules—”

“Who does then?!” overlapped Naomi.

“—I can’t go back and change God’s ordained covenant. What do you want from me?”

“I want my land back! I want you to do your job.”

“It was never your land, Naomi! It was your husband’s, then your sons’. I’m sorry Naomi, truly, but it can only be redeemed by a son.” The elder looked away.

Naomi laughing wasn’t facetious anymore. It was a defeated, coping laugh. “You think I can be our modern day Sarah? You think God will bless me after a life of curses? Forget about that, actually. You think I can court a husband?” Naomi alluded to Sarah for effect. Sarah was 1st patriarch Abraham’s postmenopausal wife who conceived Isaac. Naomi’s life had been a series of tragedies: famine forced her family to a foreign land; her husband died; both her sons died; and now she was the town’s example of an ignominious return, with her daughter-in-law Ruth, to her homeland as pariahs because they survived. Naomi’s age, “curse”, and poverty triply disqualified her from marriage material.

“Here’s what I can do. I’ll have a talk with Sideon [Naomi and Ruth’s landlord] about improving your quarters. And, I’ll start a donation to help you and your daughter-in-law. It’ll be strictly voluntary because in our custom—”

“Yeah, yeah, customs. Our scraping by isn’t enough. You like watching us beg.”

- - -

Naomi returned to her and Ruth’s small hut. Ironically, it was a menstrual hut for the main home’s women to sequester in for one week every month. The main home’s women sneered at luckless Naomi and Ruth, even though their tainted presence let them stay in their comfy beds all month.

The hut’s shabby walls didn’t stop wind. It had no windows. Its roof leaked. The ground could barely fit a cot to sleep on. Lengthwise, the cot’s foot end bent upwards against the wall. One of the width’s sides would leave only a foot-and-a-half tiptoe path. The door, though, shut tight.

Ruth and Naomi paid for their dwelling by doing servant work. They cooked, cleaned, washed, and waited in return for what the elders said passed as a roof. They weren’t paid with food though. Furthermore, other villagers wouldn’t hire Naomi or Ruth. Naomi was cursed, and Ruth was worse: a foreigner.

Ruth politely asked about Naomi’s meeting with the elder, but Ruth was multitasking. She was scraping bare a pot of saltless barley porridge. The sound aggravated Naomi’s migraine.

“How’d it go?” Scrape.

“It—” Scrape, scrape. Naomi took a deep breath. Scrape. “Nothing, as usual.”

Scrape. “Did you ask why the—hold on,” scrape, scrape, slam, scrape, “why the law is that way? Don’t laws need to be for the good and not so. . .” Whirling scrape. “I don’t know, arbitrary?”

“Yup.”

Ruth dropped her wooden stick improvised as a spoon. Its rattling in the pot signaled auditory relief, finally. “And?”

“He evaded.” said Naomi. “How he didn’t make the rules. He said he’d try to—” Scrape— “Can you stop with that for one second! Moses, help me.”

Ruth paused for two seconds, then dropped the pot and makeshift spoon exaggeratedly.

This time, the rattle sparked regret in Naomi. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“—It’s fine.”

“Really, I’m just stressed with—”

“I said it’s fine, mother. Just trying to get enough food to keep your stomach from growling another night. It’s already bad enough you snore.” Ruth smirked.

“I don’t snore,” replied Naomi with an equally light hearted tone. “I know I don’t snore.”

“How does anyone know if they snore? You’re asleep!”

“My husband told me.”

“Well, he must’ve loved you very much. Because, momma, I hate to break it to you, but. . . you snore, aggressively.”

“Shut up.” Mother- and daughter-in-law laughed together. Naomi said, “Yes, we really did love each other. If he were here—”

“Nope. Dwelling on the past won’t help us now. So, what did the elder say?”

“A whole bunch of nothing. ‘We can’t get men unless we have a man.’ ‘Women can’t work the fields.’ Nothing we didn’t know. . . of the law I mean. That bookworm knows it’s crap. He saw me and my husband working side by side back in the day. What? What are you thinking of?”

Ruth had frozen in place. Her lips relaxed open. Her eyebrows were furrowed. “Nothing really. Eat up.”

“No, Ruth. We’ll share this.”

“I’m not hungry, momma. I ate already. I’ll gather more tomorrow.”

- - -

Biblical law permits the poor to walk behind harvesters to gather the left behind grain. However, Ruth wasn’t born a Jew. She was a Moabite, and the fieldhands prohibited her joining the other impoverished Jewish women gathering scraps behind them.

Ruth sowed her own solution. She’d work. She went ahead of the harvesters, bending and prepping stalks for the harvesters. “Biblical law doesn’t apply to me working. I’m not a Jew as you say.”

Some fieldhands tried to remove her, but Ruth’s well timed crazy eyes, wild writhes, and shrill shrieks made them recoil. Her curt reminder of herself as a dirty foreigner dissuaded all further attempts.

Ruth worked. She labored. Heat stroked her hair. The sun burned her neck. Her back and legs ached. Sweat tickled her nose. She reaped for others wouldn’t let her sow.

The men ridiculed her to each other, but they must’ve respected the effort. She was moving faster than they.

Behind her, Ruth overheard someone with authority speaking to the fieldhands. “Who is that woman? Why is she working?”

“Boss, I have no idea why. She said she was going to glean and gather behind with the others, but she must be still figuring Hebrew out. She’s that Moabite girl who came back with Naomi.”

“Have you given her problems?” said the authority.

“No, sir. If anything, she’s too fast. We’re losing some barley to wind. She’s barely rested, and when she does, she doesn’t take shade. Just a few big breaths in the sun.”

“You boys are pathetic.” Ruth felt his presence approaching from behind. “You. Who are you?” he said.

Ruth turned, scoffed, and returned to her reaping. “Now they send the old taskmaster to slow me down! If I’m too fast for your guys, you got some serious problems. Maybe that’s why you all don’t let women work here. No work to talk about doing if we just get it done.”

The man’s voice sounded curious. “What’s your name?”

“Ruth,” escaped as an annoyed sigh.

“Who is your father? Who is your mother?”

“My father is dead. My mother is Naomi.”

Ruth heard a shaky breath from the authority. “Daughter.” Ruth turned around to see a salt and peppered man smiling patronizingly. He said, “Naomi married my cousin.”

Ruth resumed her reaping. “Ok, well let’s hear it. Plenty of Naomi’s kin, or her husband’s—I don’t know how you do it here. Plenty of you conveniently excuse yourself from her accursed existence. What do you got for me?”

“Naomi and I were friends before they married. I was happy she joined the family.”

“More flowery, womanly words to set up some reason to kick us while we’re down and still look like the good guy. And they call us passive aggressive.” Ruth turned to watch the man’s reaction.

His smile doubled. “My daughter, stop your work. I will not have you toil. Join the women and. . .” Something changed his train of thought. “You know, if you were my son, you’d be the foreman of all this. My men are. . . I don’t wanna’—

“Embarrassing?”

“You said it, not me,” he laughed. “But, you know what they say: ‘if “ifs” were ships, we’d all be Noah.’”

“Is that that guy who ditched his town and let them drown?”

The man heaved guffaws. It took some old timer breaths and noises to regather his speech. “Well, he tried to tell them, but they didn’t listen.”

“I don’t know,” added Ruth. “If he could convince lions to not eat sheep, I’m pretty sure he could convince some humans to save themselves.”

“You’re pretty funny,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you laugh?”

He chuckled more. “My name is Boaz. I am the owner of this field. Listen, you aren’t working here. Go get some shade, grab a drink, talk with the other women—or don’t. You won’t work anywhere anymore.”

Ruth turned around angrily combative.

“What I’m trying to say,” rushed Boaz, “is that you and Naomi will be taken care of. I’ll see to it.”

Ruth sarcastically prostrated herself. “Ooo ahh. Thank you, kind sir. What blesses me to receive such attention?” Ruth was an attractive woman physically. Her personality didn’t massage many men’s ears, but Boaz seemed to enjoy listening. Also, she was exotic, being a foreigner.

“My daughter, I’ve just returned here. I don’t know exactly what you and Naomi have experienced here, but I know it must be unjust. I don’t know what superstitions, prejudices, or whatever made my neighbors so rude. If I had been here earlier, I’m sure you’d both would have received a proper welcome home. I would’ve seen to it.”

“If’s and Noah, buddy.”

“True, but I’m home now. And I mean it when I call you ‘my daughter.’”

- - -

“Two large bags,” said Naomi with a big smile, chin high, neck stretched, eyes half closed to gauge Ruth’s overall vibe. And to allude to what every mother does. “You know how long that lasts, right?” This was a tease.

Ruth was busy tying Boaz’s two bags of barley, his gift (or duty) to Ruth and Naomi, onto the unstable walls. “Uh, probably five months if we don’t waste anything.” Ruth tugged at the bags. “Do you think this will hold? I feel like this termite wood is about to snap.”

“Five months—psh. You’re counting me too. The gift was for you. Nine months. Nine! What else lasts for nine months, huh? And, you really think we’re going to be stuck here much longer? C’mon.”

“Stop it, mother.”

“Ruth, I won’t have you slaving away for me in this latrine your whole life. You deserve to be happy. Boaz is a good man. He is a noble man. It is your move now.”

“He didn’t give it to me. He gave it to you.”

“Oh yeah? Is that what he said?” said Naomi rhetorically.

“Yes, mother. He said he heard of our struggles.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, mother!”

“Don’t get mad at me, Ruth. Tell me this. Why didn’t he seek me out when he first arrived. If he was so inclined to fulfill his filial piety?”

Ruth had no answer.

Naomi continued, “He heard about us. He heard about you. Then, he saw you.” Ruth rolled her eyes. Naomi defused quickly, “Not your looks—that too, probably—but he saw you, as a person, like I have. Your values, your honor, your personality; you, as a person. Heck, you worked his fields better than his men!”

“Momma, he’s older than you.”

“And? Don’t make me slap you.” This wasn’t a physical threat. “He is a man with honor, property of own, and a kinsman! And he fancies you. What else is there?”

“Love?”

“Love!? I just might slap you. You owe it to my son, Ruth!” This was a low blow to Ruth, but still valid. Ruth was duty bound to survive her late husband with a son to take his name. She didn’t despise her duty, but she wondered why others never struggled with theirs like she did.

Naomi continued, “It’s a triple win, too. You love your oaths, so that. You’ll get out of this filth. And, you’ll have children you’ve always wanted.”

Ruth massaged her face. The whole thing felt dirty: marriage for convenience, necessity, property. It was dutiful and socially acceptable (if not praised), but it felt off. The stress of it all made her forget to clean her hands before touching her face. Now her face was filthy.

Law and custom, both biblical and pagan, required specific behavior for male kinsman and widows that formalized property rights and inheritance. If a man died, a brother is required to marry his late brother’s widow, ethically and legally. Any and all children of the second marriage are considered sons of the first (now deceased) brother for inheritance reasons. However, Naomi’s sons died (Ruth had no brothers-in-law). In this scenario, distant male relatives could step up to marry such widows, but the obligation wasn’t enforced when so distant. Sons would still be the first deceased husband’s. Boaz was a possibility.

(If not yet surmised) Women couldn’t own property. They were property of fathers, then husbands, then sons.

Ruth wasn’t a Jew, but she knew how it all worked. She married into this family, and made the oath. Ruth kept her oaths. She wanted the land too. Who wouldn’t? This added selfishness fluttered her moral compass.

Ruth said, “It seems so. . . transactional. What would everyone say?”

“Nothing worse than they already call us!” Naomi quieted her angst, frustration. . . her greed. “I know it’s silly, but we’re outcasts because we don’t have husbands or land until we get a husband and land. But c’mon Ruth, who are you trying to lie to now? You already married my son, God rest his soul. Stop the act. What marriage isn’t transactional? Did you and your mother never—?” Naomi consolidated her poise. “Look at it as your duty if that helps. Or just get the land, my land, which will be functionally Boaz’s until a son is of age, but. . .” Naomi opened her body language for Ruth to finish the sentence. Naomi still spoke though. “With my and Boaz’s age, and the time it takes to raise a son, whose land is it really?”

- - -

Naomi suggested Ruth pretty up and head to Boaz’s. However, Ruth first went to Boaz’s then made up. She wouldn’t risk walking through glamorously. Everyone always watches her by avoiding eye contact. A self-appointed “community guard” definitely would’ve detained her (happily) if there was the slightest excuse that she was hooking.

Ruth arrived late evening to Boaz’s threshing room. He and his men had been processing the harvest. This required involved drinking for celebration, tradition, ritual, or some other manly excuse to inebriate.

Ruth confidently pushed herself through the fieldlings’ solicitations, insults, jokes, and compliments to her appointment with Boaz. The men simultaneously doubted and confirmed (both possible with drunken logic) her “appointment” without contradiction, without surprise, and with plenty of insulting jokes.

Ruth silenced them. She didn’t even need to question their manhood. All she needed was a comment on Boaz’s relationship to Naomi: an allusion that she might soon be the woman of the house.

She found Boaz groaning. He was too drunk to fall asleep comfortably. Ruth sat at his feet and slowly removed his sandals. He grunted sounds of questioning. His eyes opened but he saw nothing. Ruth offered to massage his feet. He was too drunk to verbalize consent, but he sprawled out to accept.

He presented the smelliest, ugliest feet as if they were gifts to Ruth. No sheers could sculpt the toenails. No knife could remove the calices. No perfume could dispel the smell. No oil could moisturize the salty dryness.

Ruth kept her word. She always has.

The next morning, Ruth awoke to Boaz in a fright. He was hyperventilating, aggressively questioning Ruth for his own ignorance.

Ruth calmed him with confidence. She stared at him seriously. “Boaz, will you marry me?”

Boaz said some nonsensical, hungover filler words. He shuffled around before sitting up. He groaned in pain. He glanced at Ruth, but morning brightness assaulted his eyes. His hand covered his face.

“Why me?” asked Boaz eventually.

“Is it not our laws and morals?” answered Ruth.

Boaz didn’t bite. Boaz ironically referenced his age. “You could have any other man.”

“They all say I’m cursed. You said the day we met in the field that you considered my devotion to Naomi honorable. I now wonder if you have the same honor for your family. You called me daughter.”

Boaz chuckled and it caused him pain. “The boys curse themselves, like I used to myself. Boys forget though. If you give it a few more years—”

“If’s and Noah,” said Ruth.

“You want a better home for you and your mother-in-law. Opportunistic, but reasonable.”

“No, she’s my mother now.”

Boaz smiled. “Good. I’m guessing you want a son too?”

“. . . Naturally.”

Boaz’s skepticism scanned Ruth. Ruth didn’t look away. Boaz said, “You can’t be that impatient that’d you’d saddle up with a man of my age? A woman like you. . . I don’t think so. What else do you—”

Ruth interrupted, “I redeem my late husband’s land. I work it my way. I call the shots. It’ll be through your mouth, but my words.”

Boaz smirked. “There it is. Fair enough. I agree.” He stood up, looked for his sandals, but could only find one. Ruth held the second in the air as if it were the item of negotiation. Boaz stood up straight. He said sternly, “Give me my sandal.”

Ruth guarded it.

Boaz said, “You doubt me. I see it. You think I’ll just throw you into cooking and laundry. You think I’ll order your mouth and mind shut. You need not worry. You are honoring me. Doing me a favor. Not how you or the village might think, but that you have given me a chance at redemption. You’re letting me prove myself—if not to anyone else, then to myself. I have the opportunity to do what a should do. I haven’t always been a good person. I’ve schemed and—it doesn’t matter. You’re giving me a second chance. Helping you and Naomi may save me in God’s eyes. I pray it does. Your redeeming the land may redeem me.”

Ruth’s eyes darted all over the room anxiously. It felt so slimy even though such dealings sanitized the situation. How could holiness come from such both of their selfishness? Someone must be losing from everyone’s win.

Boaz said, “You are a special person. I’m sure you know it. You have the wisdom of an elder and the fortitude of a man. If you were—”

Ruth’s eyes snapped back. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not lying.” He sighed. “I was speaking a bit flippantly, but I won’t insult you with sweet nothings. I won’t when we’re married either. I promise. You’re different, and I know I’ll be blessed by your presence. I won’t count you as my property, but rather as your own person with your own property. That is my oath. You keep your oaths; let me prove I keep mine.” Boaz’s glassy eyes stared into Ruth’s. He seemed sober. He said, “Now, may I please have my sandal?”

- - -

Ruth birthed a son Obed who became the grandfather to King David. Ruth and Naomi returned to Naomi’s home. Naomi fed Obed where she had fed her first two sons. She sang Obed the same nursery rhymes. She gave him her sons’ old toys.

Everyday Naomi took Obed out to watch Ruth work her fields. Naomi would tell the boy who was too young to understand: “Your mother loves you very much. She redeemed our family. She serves the whole village. She’s gives everything to the oath thanklessly. Go give her a hug.” Obed understood the last sentence.