In the Field of Grace (18 page)

Abel spotted him, and misunderstanding his move toward the horse, said, “I will take care of the beast, my lord. Come and see this wheat we have harvested. It’s the best I’ve ever seen, every grain plump and healthy, bigger than any crop we’ve had in my recollection.”

Boaz could think of no excuse to refuse Abel. He examined his extraordinary harvest, a mark of the blessing of God upon him and his people, and he could not move himself to feel cheerful or even thankful. He went through the motions of saying the right words, nodding at the appropriate moments. But his only desire was to depart. Leave Ruth to her young suitor. Leave her to build a life for herself while his fell apart.

“My lord?”

“Ruth!” His thoughts had engrossed him so deeply that he had missed her approach. Not wanting to give away his feelings, he forced his face into an expressionless mask. It wasn’t like her to approach him, and he wondered what gave her the courage to be bold.

“I wished to thank you for your goodness to Naomi and me. You have taken all this trouble for us. We are indebted to you.”

Boaz felt his chest tighten. “You owe me no obligation, Ruth.” He felt the last slim glimmers of hope dying. She felt
indebted
to him. Even if he were to overcome his own objections—be fool
enough to seek her hand in marriage—she could not choose freely now. She would say yes out of gratitude. What use was that to him? Obligation and debts were not what he desired from her.

She bent her head, the curve of her neck long and white. “I don’t know what I have done to find such favor in your eyes.”

He took a step back and adjusted the linen at his waist. For one insane moment he considered telling her that he longed for so much more than gratitude from her. Then someone called out her name, and, distracted, Boaz remained silent.

Again, the call came. “Adin seeks you, I believe. He doesn’t know you are here.”

Ruth’s hands tightened against the folds of her brown, shapeless tunic. “Yes, my lord.” She ran back toward the others, her gait graceful. Boaz rubbed his forehead with a calloused hand before heaving himself up onto the saddle of his horse and galloped away, with no idea where he was headed. Just away from here.

The Sabbath dawned hazy and brought with it a ferocious wind, which whipped up waves of dry, sandy dust. Ruth felt shut in and restless. Even the wind seemed more welcoming than the four walls of the house. Late in the afternoon when the wind finally quieted its howling rage, she pulled her old scarf low over her forehead and went for a short walk.

Not far from home, someone owned a diminutive olive grove. On the Sabbath, when work was forbidden and Ruth had to lay aside the responsibilities of survival for herself and Naomi, she sometimes came to the place. Here, she found a strange peace in the shade of the ancient, twisted trees and their dainty, silver leaves. The world appeared to come to a standstill there. It would be a long time before the trees would be ready for harvest, yet they seemed to harbor a promise of life. Life to come. Ruth trailed her fingers through a fanning branch of twinkling leaves and smiled.

“
The Lord suckled Jacob with honey out of the rock, and oil out
of the flinty rock
,” a husky voice spoke out of the shadows.

Ruth turned so fast, her scarf caught on a branch and pulled off her head. “My lord Boaz!”

“I see you’ve found my olives, Ruth.”

“I did not know they belonged to you. Forgive my trespass.”

“I count it no trespass to find you here.”

Ruth sighed in relief at that reassurance. His unexpected presence in a grove she had come to think of as her private hiding place shook her equilibrium. “Thank you, my lord. There is something restful in this place,” she said, although what she really meant to say was
what are you doing here? Of all the land that belongs to you, how came you to be at this spot at the very moment when I arrived?
She swallowed her curiosity and studied her sandals.

“I’m glad you think so. I own many parcels of land, some lush and rich. Yet none is as dear to me as this one. I find a strange peace among these gnarly trees.”

Ruth gave a half smile. She wasn’t surprised to discover that he found the same unusual sense of tranquility in this grove that she herself did. It was as if some precious part of heaven dwelt here. “What was it you quoted when you first saw me?”

“The Song of Moses. He spoke of these trees, of their roots insinuating themselves into the flinty stones of our homeland, and finding life, feeding our people with their rich oil. I am always encouraged by the sight of them.”

“Because they survive?”

Boaz lowered himself on a stump, stretching a leg. “Because they thrive. Because they turn the hardness of this unyielding ground into a treasure. They turn stones into life.” He pointed toward a single row of fig trees, barely visible on the eastern edge of the land. “Fig trees are the same. They root themselves into this harsh, rocky bed, and produce from it the sweetness of honey. These trees give much more freely than they receive. It’s hard not to admire them.”

Ruth leaned against a scratchy trunk. “Some people say the olive tree is ugly because it isn’t as stately as an oak, and it twists
and turns and never grows very tall. But I think they are splendid. They manage to live such long lives and stand firm against storms and winds and time itself. They endure. Long before I was born, these trees stood here, and they will still be here, bearing fruit, long after I am gone.”

“That’s a sad thought.”

“What?”

“You being gone.”

Ruth tipped her head up and studied the sky through the shade of narrow, silvery leaves. “I wasn’t planning on an immediate departure, God willing.”

Boaz smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.” He plucked a leaf from behind him and twirled it this way and that. “Are you settling in? Does Bethlehem feel like home yet?”

Ruth wondered if an olive ever felt at home in an olive press. It belonged there. But it probably didn’t feel like home once it had been plucked from its tree, and shoved between two heavy stones to be crushed over and over again in order to produce its precious oil. She smiled at the thought.

“What puts that smile on your face?”

Without calculation, the truth sprang to her lips. He had that effect on her, causing her to open her hidden thoughts without any intention of doing so. “After Naomi’s sons died, it felt like my life became an unending night. Everything I knew and cared for was taken from me. When we came here, I had no one left but Naomi. I suppose after so much loss, I feel more like a ripe olive plucked at harvest, than I do this tree, with its tenacious roots in the ground of Judah.”

A small, inarticulate exclamation escaped him. “So Bethlehem feels like the olive press?”

“Not so much Bethlehem as this season in my life. I know how blessed I am. I do not take God’s many mercies for granted. Still, I feel like I am being pressed on all sides.”

“I know how that feels. When first my daughter and then my
wife and newborn son died, I thought myself crushed beyond hope.”

Ruth wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned harder into the tree trunk. “How did you rise above it?”

“One day, a distant relative and his wife came to visit. She was great with child, very near her time. That night, I could not sleep. I kept thinking of this woman, her belly swollen with her child. At first I thought she reminded me of Judith and our unborn son. Then a conviction filled me that this image was more than a mere longing for my wife. There was something of God in it.

“As I prayed, I felt a powerful urging to speak to the child in this woman’s womb. To describe to him the world outside into which he would be born. I felt foolish at first. How do you speak to an unborn babe who isn’t even there? But the urge seemed so strong that I could not resist. I began to speak to the babe, doing my best to describe the beauty of our world. I told him that he would breathe air instead of the waters of the womb. I told him he would taste milk and as he grew older, his tongue would burst with the flavors of wheat and cheese and cinnamon and honey. I told him about the joy of a fast ride on the back of a horse, and the scratchy wool of a little lamb. I told him about cuddles and kisses and being loved. I told him about hope.

“Then the Lord asked me, ‘
Do you think he understands? Do you think he knows what your world is like now?’

“‘
No, Lord,
’ I replied. ‘
How could he? He only knows his mother’s womb. His world is too small. I could use every word the world has to offer and he would still not perceive our world. He has to be in it to understand
.’

“
‘No more can you understand My kingdom,’
He said to me. ‘
No more can you perceive where your wife and daughter and newborn son reside now. Yet that world is no less real than your own.’ ”

Ruth inhaled, the air a sharp punch in her lungs. “They are with Him, now?”

Boaz nodded. “I do not pretend to understand what this means. Like the babe in the womb, I haven’t the capacity for comprehension.
I only know that they are safe with Him. This knowledge helped me rise out of my grief. I realized that God had left me in this world for His own purpose. He was not finished with me here, and so I could not be finished with the world. It did not happen overnight. But day after day, I gained ground. I learned how to live without them.”

“You always help me to understand the Lord better.”

Boaz’s smile flashed, sweet and generous. “It is because I am so much older than you.”

Ruth frowned. “I had not noticed.”

Boaz laughed. “I had. And I can tell you that if you are in the olive press now, then like the olive, you produce nothing but goodness for those who are near you. I noticed this about you weeks ago.” With an abrupt motion he rose. “I had best return home and let you enjoy your solitude.”

If she could, Ruth would have told him that she enjoyed his company more. Without him, her favorite grove seemed shrunken and empty.

“I can see the way you look at her, Adin. You are not indifferent.”

“That shrew? I would not expose my sons to her tongue. A snake is more tenderhearted.” Adin waved his sickle in the air for emphasis. They were in a corner of the field by themselves. Ruth knew him as a righteous young man and felt safe in his company. She had allowed herself to grow separated from the other women so that she could converse with him in private.

“Why are you so concerned for Dinah, anyway? She vents her spleen on you more than anyone.”

Ruth sighed. “Bitterness and jealousy have left their mark on her; it’s true. For years she’s had to bear a burden of loneliness and rejection. How long did she have to watch you with your wife and your children while she had no husband of her own? You can’t keep company with so much disappointment without being shaped by it. But she can be restored. She wasn’t always angry, I’m told. Do you not recall her sweetness?”

“Those times are gone, Ruth. You can’t recapture your youth.”

“No. But you can’t run from it either. Sometimes you can’t move into the future without contending with what you left behind in the past.”

“What do you want from me? I will not woo her. I don’t even want her.”

Ruth gave a rueful shake of her head. “Be kind to her. I ask for no more, to start with. Show her some attention. Stop ignoring her. Stop avoiding and chiding her.”

“She deserves it.”

“If we all received only what we deserved, this would be a bitter world. What if under her angry bite, the sweet girl still lingers, too afraid to come out? Wouldn’t you be sad to miss that?”

Adin gave a particularly forceful blow from his sickle. He crouched low, cutting the wheat as near the ground as possible so that none of the straw would be wasted. “You dream, Ruth. Some people are plain mean. There is no goodness to be uncovered.”

“Perhaps. But I think you are wrong about her.”

“Wrong about who?” Dinah asked, pushing herself in the middle of Adin and Ruth.

Ruth gave Adin a warning glance. He made a growling noise in his throat. Ignoring Dinah’s nosy intrusion, he said, “You look very nice today, Dinah.”