Category: Daily Devotionals

Boaz said to her, “All that you have done for your mother-in-law after the death of your husband has been fully reported to me, and how you left your father and your mother and the land of your birth, and came to a people that you did not previously know.” Ruth 2:11

I often think about the day Ruth chose to walk with Naomi back to Bethlehem. What compelled her to leave everything familiar? Was she motivated by some hidden promise of reward or recognition? Did she imagine her name would one day be known through the ages? I doubt it. Ruth’s decision was born not from ambition but from love, from the quiet devotion that doesn’t calculate outcomes. She simply could not abandon the woman who had become her family. 

I’ve learned that those who make the greatest sacrifices rarely see themselves as sacrificial. They aren’t angling for applause. They act because they care. When others praise their courage, they don’t get it. To them, obedience is the right response to God’s call. They accept the cost without fanfare, knowing that doing what is right often carries a hidden price.

There is a price for hidden obedience. God asks me to keep showing up when applause never comes, to sow spiritual seeds I may never see bloom. Everything in me craves evidence that what I do will make a difference. Yet, this is where faith is refined—against the backdrop of ordinary days, when no one is clapping. God’s kingdom moves quietly, almost imperceptibly, through such moments. The story of Ruth reminds me that significance often hides beneath the surface of seeming insignificance. What felt like just survival to her was really the unfolding of redemption.

God’s eyes are on what others overlook. Every act of integrity, every decision to love when it would be easier to withdraw, becomes part of a larger story that I may never fully see this side of eternity. Ruth’s name was written into the lineage of Christ because she lived single, ordinary days with extraordinary faith. That steadies me. God is not measuring the visibility of my impact but the level of my devotion. He wastes nothing, not even quiet labor done in secret.

Do a deep work in me. Please show me where I need to purify the reasons behind what I do. When I am tempted to want attention, teach me to be content with being known by You. Amen

Then she fell on her face, bowing to the ground and said to him, “Why have I found favor in your sight that you should take notice of me, since I am a foreigner?”  Ruth 2:10

Ruth knew she didn’t belong. Though Boaz invited her to “make herself at home,” her heart struggled to comprehend his generosity. His kindness defied logic, and the invitation challenged every scar of rejection she carried. It was too much, too soon, too undeserved. Surviving on scraps had trained her to expect limits.

Years ago, our family moved to a small town in New Jersey and began attending a local church. We began to learn names and faces.  One Sunday, I learned that a young mother nearby was sick with walking pneumonia. Wanting to reach out, I simmered a pot of homemade spaghetti sauce all day and brought dinner to her door. She met me with confusion as I stood awkwardly on her doorstep. “Who are you?” she asked. When I explained that I was new in town and wanted to show her the love of Jesus, she said, “But what do you really want? Nobody does this kind of thing for nothing.” Her disbelief was written all over her face. She was clearly not comfortable accepting the meal but I’m happy to tell you that she finally did and a friendship was born.

I saw myself in her. For years, I was skeptical of God’s love. Each time He offered it, I kept waiting for the fine print, something that would prove that I was right to keep my guard up. Grace felt like a trick. But over time, His patience outlasted my resistance. I finally understood that there was no catch. Worthiness was a gift!

It still is.  No divine gift becomes mine until I receive it by faith. The generosity of God is not earned, negotiated, or measured.  It is offered. It is a gift but it remains unopened until my heart reaches out to take it. Jesus stands at the door, not with empty promises but with a banquet prepared at great cost—the bread of His body, the wine of His covenant, the feast of redemption that satisfies every hunger of the soul. His invitation is not tentative; it is sealed by His blood and extended to all who will come.  But I must move beyond the skepticism that whispers, “This cannot be for me.”

Today, I come not with suspicion but with wonder. Amen

“Then Boaz said to Ruth, stay here with my maids. Let your eyes be on the field which they reap, and go after them.” Ruth 2:8-9

Ruth had hoped to remain unnoticed, slipping quietly beneath the landowner’s gaze. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t have welcomed kindness; it’s that she had learned the cost of drawing attention in a world where the vulnerable are often used or dismissed. She was poor, foreign, and unprotected—simply hoping to gather a little grain from the edges of the field without suffering negative attention.  But grace saw her. Boaz not only noticed her; he was moved by her faithfulness and her story. He gives her permission to do what she would have considered unthinkable: the right to glean alongside his servants. The field that once represented survival became a place of favor. Her eyes could finally lift from the threshing floor. She could behold the wide expanse and begin to believe that anything in the fields could be hers.

For many years, the love of Abba was available to me but I never grasped it. There were promises I never thought could be mine to claim.  They were for others—the more deserving, the more spiritual, the less flawed. There was an inheritance I ignored because of my quiet sense of unworthiness.  All the while, the landowner Himself—my Redeemer—called my name. I heard His voice rising above the noise of my shame: “Come on in. You belong here. These fields are yours.” I did not need to be an outsider, looking in from the edges of the property, wishing I could be like the ones who moved about freely, enjoying their privilege.

The kingdom of God is vast and overflowing, filled with saints who walk freely in the inheritance of grace. I am invited to join them. Faith means stepping forward before I feel worthy, believing the truth of His welcome even when my heart still trembles with doubt.

So today, I choose to live as one who belongs, to walk the fields of Your goodness. Amen.

Then Boaz said to Ruth, “Listen carefully, my daughter. Do not go to glean in another field; furthermore, do not go on from this one, but stay here with my maids.” Ruth 2:8

I imagine Ruth’s relief in that moment—her fear beginning to ease, her heart daring to believe what just happened. Earlier that morning, she entered a stranger’s field as a foreigner, vulnerable and hungry, with no promise of protection or provision. By evening, her circumstances have dramatically changed. The owner of the field has seen her and spoken to her kindly.  No longer does she need to gather leftover grain off the floor of the field.  

The application here is staggering and obvious. My Father is the King. I am a citizen in His kingdom. He beckons me to come to Him every day for more food than I can possibly consume. He has declared Himself to be my provider. My identity as His child, heir to all that is His, cannot be shaken or revoked. Yet, I often go to ‘other fields’ to get my needs met. When I do, I almost hear His grief. “Where are you going, Christine? Everything is here that you need.  Don’t be lured into other fields that won’t satisfy.” I can tell you this ~ every time that I have left, I returned home empty and angry with myself for having deserted.

The lure of getting my needs met outside of God is powerful. The counterfeit promises relief when my heart feels most vulnerable. I am drawn to what seems immediate and tangible, forgetting that the enemy knows how to package emptiness in attractive wrappings, convincing me that a lesser field will satisfy. But every substitute reveals its hollowness. Every other source, however appealing, ends up hurting me.  Detours never pay off.

Your field is enough, Father. Amen

Then Boaz said to his servant who was in charge of the reapers, “Whose young woman is this?” Ruth 2:5

In the days of Ruth, the poor were provided for if they were willing to work. Widows, orphans, and out-of-town strangers were allowed to walk through the fields and gather whatever grain the harvesters left behind.

This was Ruth’s only option. One morning, she arose to go to work despite the heavy weights she carried emotionally. She was destitute with barely enough food to survive. She had lost her husband and was still in grief. And she faced danger as she worked in the field. (She lived during the time of the judges when lawlessness ruled and “every man did what was right in his own eyes.”) Fear and uncertainty must have been her companions that morning as she faced the day ahead. She understood that she was in economic, emotional, and social bondage.

She did not know that the landowner would take notice of her. She did not know that while she felt alone, he was being made aware of her plight. She did not know that he would make provision for her future. She labored quietly, only aware of her own heartbeat and her own thoughts. Perhaps she believed that the rest of her life would resemble that particular day. She did not know about redemption. It was out of the realm of her experience.

There are days I ‘feel’ alone. I am not. The King who owns the land takes notice of me. There are days I feel that my life will always be what it is now. It won’t. The King who writes the future has plans for me. I forget to take into account redemption. It is always a bit beyond my grasp, but I’m learning.

My King is the One who waits to offer me an exchanged life. Forgiveness instead of condemnation. Security instead of fear. Companionship instead of abandonment. Ruth could not see her destiny as she bent over to gather grain. But, it existed nonetheless.

No matter how today may look or feel, I cannot judge the future by it. Your eyes see me. Your

Son paid for my future. Amen

Now behold, Boaz came from Bethlehem and said to the reapers, “May the Lord be with you.” And they said to him, “May the Lord bless you.” Ruth 2:4

Boaz. What a man. What an employer. His first words of the morning were not orders or corrections, but a blessing. “The Lord be with you.” He didn’t stride into the fields to check progress or assert control. He came speaking peace, the kind of peace that flows from a man who walks with God. His words revealed something deeper than good manners; they revealed spiritual leadership that shaped the atmosphere of his workplace.

And the workers’ reply? “The Lord bless you.” That kind of response cannot be forced. They didn’t murmur or pretend to respect him. Their words came freely, from genuine affection and trust. Boaz had lived among them with integrity. His blessing carried weight because his life backed it up.

We all know what it feels like when someone’s words don’t match their character — when they offer prayers or advice that feel hollow, detached, or self-serving. Even when the words are true, the heart behind them is not. Their gestures are hollow, seeming more self-serving than sacrificial. Authenticity matters. 

This passage challenges me deeply. Before I speak a word of encouragement or correction, I must ask: Have I earned the right to be heard? Have I built credibility through love, consistency, and prayer? If not, my words may fall like seeds on hard soil. But if trust has been cultivated, blessing will take root.

The old adage is right: Build the bridge of friendship strong enough to support the truth. Boaz had built that bridge ~ plank by plank, through fairness, humility, and faith. His greeting wasn’t a performance; it was an overflow.

Reveal any part of me that is hypocritical. Let my speech carry the quiet authority that comes from a pure heart and a consistent walk with You. Amen.

And Ruth said to Naomi, “Please let me go to the field and glean among the ears of grain after one in whose sight I may find favor.” Ruth 2:1

I’ve learned the hard way that decisions made in the heat of emotion can come back to haunt me. Passion can inspire bold beginnings, but it cannot sustain them.  Ruth was now in Bethlehem with Naomi, far from everything familiar.  She and Naomi were confronted with their meager resources and the prospect of hard labor to make ends meet. Ruth is up to the task. Yet Scripture records no second-guessing, no wistful glance backward toward Moab. Ruth doesn’t ask for an easier path. She says, “Let me go to the fields.” Her heart turns not to what was, but to what is. She leans into the day’s demands with quiet resolve.

Choosing to embark on a new venture is easier than seeing it through to completion. A fresh endeavor holds my interest while the thrill of a past commitment diminishes with time. Because of that, it is easy to become one who starts things but never finishes them. The grind of ordinary days ushers in a slow kind of testing.

With every dream, there is a reckoning. Once birthed, the beauty of it is often obscured by rigorous daily challenges. I think of Daughters of Promise.  Its beginnings were drenched in miracle. God opened doors I could never have forced. Between spiritual mountaintops lie long stretches of valley — administrative work, intermittent financial challenges, and spiritual opposition. It’s so easy to long only for the glory and resist the grit. I cannot be childish, only desiring what is fun and brings instant gratification.

Ruth was wise. Feelings did not rule her life, but neither was there an absence of them. Her life was lived in proper balance, rich with emotion but anchored by a steadfast spirit.

Lord, continue to give me a heart that delights in Your work. When the labor feels heavy, strengthen my resolve. Let my faithfulness become its own form of worship. Amen.

Why do you call me Naomi, since the Lord has witnessed against me and the Almighty has afflicted me? Ruth 1:21

Naomi’s words sound familiar. Job once said the same thing: “The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.” Their voices echo across time — two weary souls, stripped of what they loved most, trying to make sense of loss under the gaze of a sovereign God. Both remind us that everything, even the arrows of the enemy, must pass through the hands of God before they ever reach us.

When I sit with that truth, something in me rises in protest. It offends my sense of fairness.  If everything passes through His hands, then why doesn’t He stop it? Why doesn’t love protect what it cherishes? He says I am engraved on the palm of His hand and that image is so intimate, so tender. How can He cherish me, yet allow me to be hurt?

In the fall, God conceived a way not to balance good and evil, but to utterly overcome evil with good. He did not design them as equal forces — He designed redemption to tip the scales. The good He brings out of suffering is not compensation; it’s transformation. It multiplies, redeeming not only what was lost, but also who we become in the process. The tragedy is that not everyone will taste this miracle. Why? Because the key that unlocks it is faith, the defiant choice to believe in His love when everything visible argues against it.  Faith is the courage to hand God the jagged pieces and whisper, “I still believe You love me.”

“God, here is my story — the one I wish had gone differently. I choose to trust that You love me, even here, even now.” When I’m able to say this through my tears, only then will I see redemption. Faith is most profound when others hear me praise God, even though they fail to understand why in the world I would do such a thing!

I see You, waiting in the ashes, coaxing me toward trust so You can redeem my story.
Amen.

And when they had come to Bethlehem, all the city was stirred because of them, and the women said, “Is this Naomi?” She said to them, “Do not call me Naomi; call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me. Ruth 1: 19-20

When Naomi left Bethlehem, she walked away with a husband on one side and two sons on the other. When she returned, she came back empty-handed. No husband. No sons. Only a foreign woman who clung to her with fierce loyalty. The people barely recognized her. The years of loss had carved deep lines in her face. Her friends whispered, “Is this Naomi?”—as if grief had rewritten her very features. She had once been robust and full of life; now, she was hollow and broken, evidenced by her new name. “Mara.” “Bitter.”

Our faces tell our stories, too. They are quiet witnesses to all that we’ve lived through. Yesterday, I sorted through old photographs that spanned decades of captured moments. There were the familiar smiles of birthdays, Christmas mornings, and graduations. But then, I stumbled upon pictures from a darker time. My face was drawn, my smile strained, my eyes dulled by something invisible. I remembered how hard it was to keep breathing during those days. Looking at those photos, I realized how profoundly suffering reshapes us—how it changes the set of our jaw, the light in our eyes, even the way we carry ourselves.

Those who had seen Jesus preach on a hillside were taken aback, I’m sure, by the different countenance they saw as He carried His cross. The One who once held children on His lap and enjoyed their precocious antics could also be heard crying out in the night to His Father. Oh, but here’s the thing. God is sovereign, and He never leaves us in a pit if we stay on the path He designed for us. Naomi’s story took a drastic turn. Eventually, mine did, too. We know
what happened to Jesus. His darkest hour gave way to a glorious resurrection morning.

I am often burdened but I am never hopeless. When I lose perspective, remind me that hope is not a feeling—it’s a Person.  You are my hope, alive and unchanging. Amen