The copper light of sunset filtered through the open window as Ruth paused at the threshold, watching Naomi at prayer. Her mother-in-law swayed gently, arms lifted toward heaven, her whispered words carrying an intimacy that made Ruth’s heart ache.
Strange, this God of Israel. No blood dripped from His altar, no screams pierced the dusk. How different from Chemosh, whose stone face had watched Ruth’s people sacrifice their own flesh and blood, whose appetite for death seemed never satisfied.
Ruth’s hand drifted unconsciously to the small bowl of grain she found set aside. Another offering? Her lips curved at the simplicity – just grain, just words, just this quiet conversation between Naomi and her God. “Merciful and gracious,” they called Him, “slow to anger and abounding in love.”
The familiar voice of doubt slithered through her mind: Not for you. Never for you. The ancient laws were clear – Moabites would not be accepted into the assembly of the Lord, not even to the tenth generation. The fruit of incest, they called her people. A shamefully conceived nation.
Ruth closed her eyes, remembering the thick smell of blood at Chemosh’s altar, the metallic taste of fear in her mouth as she watched the priests perform their brutal rites. That was the god she knew. The only god she had right to approach. And yet…
She opened her eyes to find Naomi still swaying, her face transformed by something Ruth could only name as peace. Such strange joy in this widow who had lost everything. Such trust in this God who, by His own law, should reject Ruth’s very presence.
“Your people will be my people,” Ruth had promised in that moment of grief-stricken love. But she had paused before adding, “Your God will be my God.” Even then, she had known the impossibility of it.
A sudden breeze stirred the evening air, carrying the scent of ripening barley. Ruth felt it brush her cheek like a soft kiss, gentle as the touch of a loving parent. Her heart lurched with unexpected longing.
Could it be? Could this God who demanded only grain and gratitude, who spoke in whispers rather than screams, who seemed to delight in Naomi’s simple presence – could He possibly have room in His heart for a daughter of Moab? Or was this just another hope that would bleed out on the altar of reality?
