The Journey (Ruth)

A refugee journey

(Based on the Bible book of Ruth, an ancestor of Jesus)



No rain. No rain. Still no rain.


Harvests failed. Hunger drove us out. We crossed borders looking for relief. We wanted only the simple dignity of earning a day's wage, of feeding our families. We trekked, dusty and worn.


I am Naomi. In my own language my name means joy. What irony that was to become.


Now I am weary and full of years, but at that time we were young and willing. We worked hard. We worked long hours doing the jobs they didn't want. We learned their language and customs. We made a home and a life. The day came when could arrange marriages for our sons. What a proud day. What a happy day.


Then the sickness came to our village. My husband's body, weak with hard labour, was quickly overcome. We wept deeply for our loss.


Our sons worked even harder. Their future was my hope. We kept saving for the weddings. We kept our heads high. More people died. Labour shortages. Work was harder but wages rose. Then disaster again knocked at our door. One son after the other was taken sick and died.


We were now 3 widows in one household. How could I, broken in health and heart, produce more sons to honour our promise to those two young women? I revoked their contract and gave them freedom to find new husbands. I decided to return to the land of my birth. Though little more than a beggar I needed to be among my own.


I sold what we had left to pay safe passage with a trading caravan. Well, I say safe. How safe has it ever been for women travelling alone? But it was a risk I had to take.


I said goodbye to the girls but they wouldn't let me go. Finally one agreed to return to her parents but Ruth held on to me. Stubbornly she begged me, "I will go with you. Your people will become my people, your God will become my God."


In my grey mood I said some hard things to her. I told her there would be only shame waiting for us, returning with no working men and no foreign money. But still she came. She hung on to this dried up depressed shell of a woman. She made me eat when food felt like dust in my mouth. She made me walk when all I wanted was to curl up and die too. She trusted in my God, whose very name I was cursing in my despair.


We came to the land of my ancestors. Old friends and family shook their heads when they saw me. When they greeted us I said "Don't call me Naomi, joy. My new name is Mara, bitterness. I have gone sour with grief." There was no welcome party. We had brought no honour in our homecoming.


According to the customs of my land, laid down by our God in his laws, the poor must be provided for. They harvest round field edges, grain left standing for this purpose. We call our God "The Living God" because although we have times and places for meeting him, we can't confine him to them. He hates when the weak are neglected and oppressed. He shows himself to be full of grace and compassion, slow to anger and completely reliable in his love. He gives legal rights even to women, foreigners and those in need, a rarity in my day and age.


So Ruth went to work in the field of a relative of my late husband. Being a good man, Boaz instructed his workers to leave her extra grain, to make sure she was unharmed and to give food to her. In time, in order to provide for us fully he negotiated to take her as his wife. I could give him no bridal gift but according to our laws if she marries a family member he can take over some ancestral land in my late husband's name so we brought him a blessing and our honour was restored.


Now, finally settled in her new land, Ruth gave birth to a son. More honour. I had not smiled since my loss in that distant place. I had journeyed in deep depression. When dear Ruth put the baby in my arms, at long last I laughed and sobbed all at once. I was flooded with joy and hope for the future. Our God had rescued me from distress and shame through the faithfulness of this young woman. May his name be praised.