ruth

At dusk after the sheep had been herded, the brothers were found dead in the shades of a young cedar, and on their sides were several dry crusts and half-filled vessels of wine that exuded a metallic smell. It was murder. Elimelech, and his sons Mahlon and Kilion have all died in the land of Moab; a fitting termination, it seemed, of the curses—sterility and bloodless deaths— which followed his line since the Lord banished them from a plagued home.

Such was opportunity enough for Naomi and the two Moabite widows to return to Judah, for the Lord had again blessed the land, and there were crops enough to feed even the poorest foreigners. And so it also was the story of how Ruth chose to stand beside her mother-in-law, live by picking up barley snippets from the farm of an esteemed gentleman named Boaz, and eventually give birth and raise a little girl fated to spoil the house of Levi.

Boaz’s favor had always been with the Moabite woman; she ate his table, sheltered in his estate, and indulged in his love. Not long after her venture at the threshing floor, while the man winnowed barley, came what seemed like his preordained visits to her dwelling. He would knock at her door during the calmest nights and the two will make love until the moon would rest exactly above the Lord’s altar, then he would leave with his cloak and tunic, off to another cottage to get ready for the next working day.

Her legitimate redeemer, however, came exactly when the heat had subsided and the cold winds have started to shroud Judah. Azgad, son of Jacobo and Elimelech’s nephew, returned after a long journey from the eastern lands, carrying more wealth, more slaves, and various articles of gold. His riches far exceeded Boaz’s, for his father worked twice as hard after the famine in the sacred lands. Azgad took notice of the foreign woman upon a visit to his kin’s estate, and later knew that it was the widow of the late Mahlon. Younger and more prosperous, Azgad was determined to have Ruth for his wife, for she appeared wise and strong, and capable of grooming what would become his sons. He would redeem Elimelech’s lands and marry the stake because no decision could be wiser.

In the gates of Judah, he refused to throw his sandal to secure the transfer of the rights of purchase—so began the obvious conflict which was settled in just one bitter night, when the thinnest strands of barley stood so still as though frozen. That night, several men set fire on Azgad’s field and the township noticed that in the morning after, the earth already smelled of fresh bread; in the afternoon, of wine; and in the evening, of burnt meat. He was sent a dying he-goat before nightfall, and with it, another invitation to the city gate. In his cottage, Boaz sat pleased, tapping a little ewer with his fingers. Such was a closure lucid enough for some of the spectators.

Several harvest seasons came after Ruth and Boaz had vowed a lifetime of devotion to each other, before the Lord of Judah, the elders, and members of their respective households. Still more seasons came, yet Ruth was found with no child, and in her moments alone she would harbor such growing discontent about her marriage—thinking that the same blood and the same curse which ran in the line of Elimelech also ran in Boaz’s—at such instance however, murder was unworkable. Not in the land and in the eyes of the Lord. He, the husband, shared the same disappointment, for without a boy he had no legitimate heir.

Now in one of the feasts thrown by Boaz for the household, Ruth once again took notice of Azgad—how he seemed to have grown younger, more vibrant in years. One moment and their eyes met, bringing to his recall how his fields were burned; and their hearts being subject to revenge and discontent, their minds being eager for certain disengagements, they fell into deceit. Not long after, she was found with child, to the joy of Boaz’s household, but to the rage of the man himself, for being aware of his own incapacities, he ventured in secret to find out who the father could be, but to no avail.

The fields again smelled of bread and wine the day Aida and Obed were born. The man Boaz, set out quietly in his field with fire from the Lord’s altar and wept bitterly as he spread the fire. And behold the morning after, such fragrance which could only come from a crisp burnt offering.

(dhidalgo 2009)