In the Field of Grace (11 page)

B
oaz shed his light linen mantle and hitched up his tunic without taking his eyes off the ram. It needed to be moved to a new pen away from the ewes, but the animal seemed unusually reluctant to cooperate. Boaz’s head shepherd had already gone for a short flight in the air and landed flat on his back thanks to the ram’s curled horns. Boaz swallowed a smile. It had been hard not to laugh at Zabdiel tumbling in the air, a comical look of disbelief on his face.

Boaz would handle the matter himself, although he did not need to. Plenty of men worked for him. Men young enough not to mind a few unintended flying leaps. But this was his prize ram, and Boaz had a soft spot for it. This same ram had sired a number of the strong, healthy lambs ambling in the nearby green pastures. Although during mating season the beast could prove irritable, it was not an ill-humored creature as a rule. Boaz could not understand its sudden quarrelsome attitude.

He maintained his distance from the riled animal for a long while, patiently waiting for it to calm down.

Boaz was good at patience.

The ram stood motionless, keeping Boaz in its sight. Deciding
that the man daring to stand in his dominion required no special effort, it turned its head to examine something in the far horizon.

With the experience of long years, Boaz grasped his opportunity and took a running leap. The ram saw him coming too late. Boaz grabbed its horns before it could knock him down and twisted the proud head to one side, then down. In brute strength, the animal stood far superior to the man. But Boaz had a few tricks up his sleeve and wrestled the animal to the ground, unharmed. Zabdiel helped him transfer the now tired beast to its new, commodious pasture.

Fetching Boaz’s mantle, Zabdiel held it open for him. “The wealthiest man in Bethlehem, respected throughout Judah, and you have to wrestle your own ram. Why not let the rest of us do the work? That’s why you pay us, my lord.”

Boaz bent down to straighten the ties of his leather sandals, which had grown twisted in the tussle. In spite of Zabdiel’s teasing remark, Boaz knew he had earned his admiration by the way he had dealt with the animal. His men appreciated working for a master who shared in the rigors of their labor.

“Every once in a while I like to show you young ones how it’s done,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Besides, I can’t let you have all the fun. Nothing like a good challenge to make a man feel alive.”

Folding his arms against his chest, he leaned against a majestic palm tree—Melekh’s tree. Against all odds, Melekh had lived a few more years after Judith’s death. Boaz had never known a dog to live so long. Where Boaz went, the aging dog followed, limping after him with single-minded persistence. When Boaz wept, the dog put a paw on his lap and whimpered softly. When he could not sleep, Melekh stayed awake, thumping its tail softly, biding through the hard night hours with Boaz. Following the hardest years after the death of his wife and children, Melekh stayed by Boaz’s side, like a wizened champion sent to keep him company. When finally the dog took its last breath, full of years and almost blind, Boaz buried it here, in its favorite field, and planted a palm over the spot as a memorial.

“A good dog, that Melekh,” Zabdiel said.

“The best.”

The unexpected voice of a woman cut into Boaz’s memories. “What a spectacle, cousin. I hope you haven’t broken any bones.”

Boaz stifled a groan. Miriam. He had a tender spot for his wife’s cousin, as long as she stayed far away. Up close, she could prove trying. “My bones are still in right order. Welcome, Miriam.”

“I went to the house and Mahalath said I could find you here.”

“Zabdiel, please fetch Miriam a cup of sweet wine.”

He led the way toward the shade of a barn. A couple of simple wooden stools rested against the wall and he motioned for her to sit. “What brings you to me today, Miriam?”

“Does a woman need a reason to visit her cousin? Speaking of cousins, have you heard that yours has returned to Bethlehem?” Miriam’s face shone like a lampstand.

In many ways Boaz found her an amiable woman. Except for her more than common interest in gossip. “You speak of Naomi, I presume?”

Miriam’s brightness dimmed. “You’ve heard?”

“The day she arrived. She has been burdened with unimaginable sorrow. May the Lord help her to bear her affliction.”

Miriam took a sip of her wine. “You understand, better than most.”

Boaz said nothing, his face growing blank. Noticing his cold reaction, Miriam went on quickly. “Elimelech was a good man. And her precious sons! Who can believe they are gone? But at least she is not completely alone.”

“She returns with a Moabite daughter-in-law, I understand.”

Miriam nodded. For once, she did not rush into speech, which Boaz found curious. He had been certain she would jump into a long discourse on the horrors of becoming kin to an untrustworthy foreigner.

“Her name is Ruth. She’s not what you might expect from a Moabite.”

“No?”

“She left her family and her home to accompany Naomi here. Naomi released her from the duty, but she would not be dissuaded, not even when Naomi made it clear to her that she had no prospects for a future in Bethlehem. You should see the way she cares for Naomi—better than a real daughter.”

In spite of himself, Boaz found his interest sparked. “She abandoned her home for Naomi’s sake? But I heard Naomi was poor.”

“Close to starving, I’d say. Ruth clings to her for love. She’s given up her whole life, I fear. The women of Bethlehem cannot overlook her heritage.”

“Perhaps she will win them over with her affection for Naomi.”

Miriam made a face. “Criticism is rarely won over by love, Boaz. Putting her down makes them feel important. Superior. It’s not a pleasure to be given up easily.”

Boaz thought over her words; though they were harsh, he knew that often they proved true. Compassion washed through him at the plight of this woman he had never met. What courage it must have required to leave behind her home for an unknown destiny. He couldn’t help but admire her for it.

Miriam stayed awhile longer to chat about a small piece of land with which she needed help. When she left, Boaz looked toward the sun, narrowing brown eyes against its bright light.

“It must be close to noon,” he said to Zabdiel.

The head shepherd looked up. “It is, my lord. Running late?”

“Very late.” Boaz frowned in annoyance. The delay threw the whole day out of order. Harvest required close supervision. Thanks to his rambunctious animal and Miriam’s unexpected visit, he would now be unable to maintain his planned schedule. With a quick recalculation, he decided to ride to the closest barley field, which he had not intended to visit that day.

He signaled the servant to prepare his horse and swung on the beast’s back before it had come to a full stop. He found the ride exhilarating as he galloped through uneven roads, with the wind
blowing his mantle like ship sails behind his back.

He was no longer young, nor was he old, but in the middle years when a man has the advantage of experience and still enjoys the vigor of youth. A fast ride had the power to thrill him as much as it had the first time he had climbed on the back of a horse. He noticed a hawk as it soared above him and Boaz forgot his annoyance and grinned for the joy of being alive, when all the sweet blessings of nature conspired to make the world beautiful.

He could see the barley in his fields, full and bursting with goodness, waiting to be cut down. Waiting to feed his many servants and their dependents. He planned to store a good portion of this harvest. The rains were fickle in his part of the world. With wisdom and judicious planning, he could ride out the famine years, like Joseph in Egypt.

The reapers came into view, and Boaz slowed his horse and turned in their direction. “The Lord be with you!” he cried, as he jumped to the ground and handed the reins to a waiting servant.

“The Lord bless you!” his harvesters replied.

It had become a familiar refrain, this prayerful greeting between master and servants. It would have been enough for Boaz to wish his workers
shalom
—the peace of God. Polite enough. Gracious enough. But Boaz liked to bless them with more. And the workers had learned to respond in kind.

His foreman, Abel, came to greet him. Young and brown-skinned, Abel had a long, handsome face with faint laugh lines around narrow eyes.

“How goes it, Abel?”

“See how far they have come?” He pointed to the eastern border of the field. “All this in half a day.”

Boaz examined the progress in the field with satisfaction before turning his attention to the laborers. Some of the men and women were his servants. Others were only hired for the harvest season, though he had come to know them through the years. Using sharp sickles, the men cut the grain in bunches and carried them until
the weight became too great to carry. Then they simply dropped the armloads to the ground. From behind them, the women came, bundling the cut barley into sheaves, which would later be carried to a barn. Last came the gleaners.

Though he had never tasted of poverty, Boaz had a soft spot for the gleaners who had no way of feeding themselves other than the bounty of God and the generosity of landowners. He recognized a few widows, and one man who had lost his hand years ago in an accident when his cart had overturned on a rainy day. His infirmity rendered him unable to work for wages since he could not keep up with other men. Instead, he gleaned and depended on the additional largess of neighbors and family.

There were several new gleaners. Among them, Boaz noticed a young woman, tall and willowy, bent over to her work. He could tell she was unfamiliar with the task, though she seemed to give her full strength and focus to it. The angle of her head prevented him from seeing her face. Then she straightened her back to stretch for a short moment. Boaz felt an unfamiliar tightening in his chest.

Her forehead was damp with perspiration, and a streak of dirt where she must have rubbed her face ran down the side of one cheek. Hair the color of dark honey peeked from under her scarf, framing golden skin brightened with ruddy patches on each cheek. Her eyes, which she raised toward him for a moment, were an unusual tawny color. She was young and striking. Yet he knew instinctively that this woman had seen much in life. Sorrow clung like a seal to the lines of her mouth and filled her eyes. Sorrow and something elusive he could not name. But it drew him to look longer and still not be satisfied.

He turned his gaze away, turning red at his own unusual lingering inspection of an unknown female. “Who is that young woman?” he asked, pointing to her with his chin, hoping Abel could not sense his intense interest. “Who does she belong to?”

The foreman shaded his eyes against the piercing light. “She is the one who came from Moab with Naomi, my lord.”

“Naomi’s daughter-in-law? What is she doing in my field?”

“She asked me this morning if she could gather grain behind the harvesters. Polite as a princess of Egypt, with humble manners and a soft voice—I couldn’t refuse her. She is a hard worker and except for a few minutes’ rest in the shelter, has continued gleaning since early this morning.”

So this was Naomi’s Ruth. This tall, golden-eyed girl whose beautiful face was marred with dirt and sweat and suffering. Moabite or not, she had managed to win over Abel. “You did well, allowing her to gather barley here,” he said to his foreman.

Boaz thought of her gleaning in unfamiliar fields, exposed to the dangers that an unprotected woman might face, and winced. He found himself unable to bear the thought of her being hurt. It was like standing by and watching a helpless dove tortured by cruel boys.

“Abel, I want you to go and warn the young men away from her. Tell them anyone who dares to lay an improper hand on the Moabite will have to contend with me. Tell them I’ll punish them personally before I dismiss them.”

B
oaz knew he sounded fierce, but could not keep the intensity of his feelings from spilling into his voice. The thought of this woman hurt, violated, besmirched in any way made his stomach turn.

Abel’s black eyebrows rose to the middle of his forehead. “Yes, my lord.”

It occurred to Boaz that Ruth’s gleaning would be the only source of income for her and Naomi. Why else would Naomi have sent her into the fields without protection?

He determined to provide for both women as best he could, seeing that Naomi was kin to him by marriage. Surely the widow of Elimelech deserved additional provision from his hand.