My marriage ended with a tragedy. But that tragedy was a beginning.
I was married to the Hebrew man, Mahlon not long after I was old enough to be wed. His father had moved the family to Moab because of a famine in Canaan (or the Land of Israel as he called it). They came from the town of Beyt-lehem the place where the god Lehem was honored. However, Mahlon and his family always referred to the place by an ancient name of Ephrath. They worshipped the “Holy One of Israel” whose name no one was allowed to say.
When I was married, I had to learn new customs and even new recipes from my mother-in-law, Naomi. She was a patient teacher. As she taught me, and my sister-in-law Orpah, Naomi would tell us fascinating stories of her people and God. She had lived through ‘the Exodus’ when all the ‘children of Israel’ depended on something called ‘manna’ from God to eat. She explained it was sweet and tiny and had to be used the day it was gathered.
My husband and Orpah’s were killed by marauders who burnt the field the men had worked so hard to harvest. We found their bodies in the middle of the land. I heard whispers that it was perhaps someone local who had done the awful deed because Mahlon and Chilion were foreigners who had strange customs. I hoped that neither Naomi nor Orpah heard those rumors. They were devastated by the deaths, as was I. We now had no one to provide for and protect us.
As we grieved together, Naomi used her own dowry to buy us food. One day she announced that she was returning to Ephrath. Orpah burst into tears and I begged her to reconsider.
“It is for the best, my daughters,” she insisted. “You can return to your fathers’ houses and be cared for. I am a dry husk with nothing left to give.”
She had already arranged to travel with a caravan leaving that day, so we had no time to convince her. I only knew that she would not go alone. I snatched up my few possessions and ran after her. Orpah trailed behind, weeping. At the trader’s camp, Orpah turned back to town. I hugged her one last time before joining Naomi.
“Go home, Daughter,” she ordered. “Look, you can catch up to Orpah.”
I shook my head. “Wherever you go, I will go. Wherever you sleep, I will sleep. Your people will be my people. Your God will be my God. Where you die, I will die and be buried. May your God hear my oath.”
I thought she was still going to refuse to agree. Then her shoulders sagged wearily, and she leaned into my waiting arms.
It was a long, hard journey to Beyt…that is Ephrath (I must learn to use the correct name). The people of the town were amazed to see her.
In a monotone, she told them, “Do not call me Naomi. Call me Mara for God has made me bitter, empty, and alone. How can you call me Naomi when God has brought only calamity and punishment on me?”
Despite her attitude, we found a place to live. I go out in the fields now that it is the harvest time. I glean at the edges, as is allowed by the Law of Moses. I find enough to feed us and put some away for the cold months.
The God of Naomi will provide.
Ruth is fascinated by Naomi’s faith and stories. When we share our faith stories, we can inspire each other. When have you shared yours with someone who didn’t know God’s love?
Does Ruth’s story resonate in your life? Have you ever had to leave everything familiar to start something new? Maybe it was a job, ministry, marriage, children…?
© Cynthia Davis 2020
