Daughters of promise

But Ruth said, “Do not urge me to leave you or turn back from following you; for where you go, I will go, and where you lodge, I will lodge. Your people [shall be] my people, and your God, my God. “Where you die, I will die, and there I will be buried. Ruth 1:16-17

Most of us would never dream of marrying someone without first meeting their family. We want to know: Who shaped them?  What kind of environment formed their heart, their habits, their way of loving? When we take vows, we’re not just uniting with a person—we’re inheriting an entire family. It’s weighty, as it should be.

That’s why Ruth astonishes me. She bound her life to Naomi’s with a vow that was breathtaking.  She pledged herself not only to Naomi, but to Naomi’s people, her homeland, and her God. She did this without meeting any of them. No glimpse of Bethlehem. No conversation with Naomi’s kin. No tangible security to fall back on. It would be like marrying a stranger from another land, moving to his country, adopting his language, customs, and faith, and all while knowing he had lost everything and had no means to provide. What a terrifying act of trust. And yet, she said yes.

Ruth’s words— “Where you die, I will die, and there will I be buried”—move me deeply. She didn’t even ask to have her body carried back to Moab. She wanted to lie beside Naomi, her dust mingled with hers, their lives and legacies intertwined beyond the grave. That is the kind of love that neither calculates nor holds back.

When I met Jesus and realized the depth of His love for me, I, too, said yes.  I took up my cross and followed Him, not knowing where the path would lead. I accepted His people (my new brothers and sisters) as my own, despite our differences. I said yes to belonging to a family of strangers who are somehow one body, one faith, and one hope. Like Ruth, I followed love into foreign territory, trusting that wherever He leads, that is home.

Lord, I will not hold back what love requires. Let me see the wonder of belonging to You so completely. Amen.

Orpah kissed her mother-in-law, but Ruth clung to her. Ruth 1:14

Naomi had just urged her two daughters-in-law to return to Moab, to go back to their families and the familiarity of home. With remarkable grace, she blessed them both, releasing them with love. One daughter-in-law wept, kissed Naomi goodbye, and turned back toward Moab. Her tears were real, but her decision was final. The other daughter-in-law, however, could not move. She clung to Naomi and perhaps she couldn’t even articulate why.

There are connections between souls that defy logic. When they are God-breathed, they transcend age or even distance. They are rare and holy. When such a bond forms, life feels aligned and deeply right. When it’s severed, even by miles or years, an ache lingers.  God binds hearts together for His eternal purposes. 

Orpah made her choice to return to Moab. Ruth, however, couldn’t consider separation. Perhaps she felt the weight of destiny and that transcended sacrifice.  Naomi had made the cost clear: to follow her meant leaving everything—home, family, culture, even the gods she once trusted. It was a call to foreign soil, unfamiliar people, and an uncertain future. Yet Ruth’s heart already knew what her decision would be.

I understand that kind of call. When Jesus invites me to follow Him, it always comes with a cost. He asks me to release the familiar, old securities, comfortable thought patterns, the people or places that once defined me. Each time, love and connection constrain me.  Like Ruth, I cannot turn back. His presence has become my home, and to walk away from Him would be to lose everything that makes life worth living.

To follow You, Lord, is to surrender all.  Not to follow would be an unbearable loss.  So I cling to You and I will not let go of Your hand. Amen.

They wept aloud and said to her, “We will go back with you to your people.” But Naomi said, “Return home, my daughters. Why would you come with me? Am I going to have any more sons, who could become your husbands? Ruth 1:10-11

The gifts we remember most are often the ones that were given at great personal cost. Perhaps when you were small, you received a Christmas gift that left you openmouthed. Yes, it was what you wanted but you wondered how in the world your parents afforded it. You knew they didn’t have the money for it. You understood that they moved heaven and earth to put that gift under the tree. A memory such as that stands out over a lifetime.

Naomi understood that kind of love. She urged her daughters-in-law to return to their homeland, to start over, to find happiness again — though it meant she would walk home alone, through miles of wilderness, back to a life stripped bare. Her offer wasn’t sentimental; it was sacrificial. And that’s why they wept. They saw the cost in her eyes.

Oftentimes, God asks me to give up something precious so another can thrive. The sacrifice hurts profoundly. When I first consider the gift, there might be a sick feeling, knowing what it will require. I wonder if I can actually do it, the cost is so staggering. I usually teeter on the edge of indecision for a while, until courage and faith take over.

Then there are other times when the request doesn’t even come from God directly, but from a person. They ask something costly of me — perhaps undeservedly so. Everything in me recoils. They haven’t earned this. This isn’t fair. I should always stop and pray. God may be asking me to make such a sacrifice ‘as unto Him.’ It is for my benefit, allowing me to taste of Christ’s journey on earth when He gave outrageously to the undeserving.

Jesus, I’m out of my comfort zone. In fact, I’m squirming. But, I’m willing to follow Naomi’s lead. Amen

When she heard in Moab that the LORD had come to the aid of his people by providing food for them, Naomi and her daughters-in-law prepared to return home from there. With her two daughters-in-law, she left the place where she had been living and set out on the road that would take them back to the land of Judah. Ruth 1:6-7

Much has been written about Naomi’s loss—her husband gone, her two sons buried, her life as a woman alone in Moab cracked open by grief. But little ink has been spilled on the two young women nearby her. Two daughters-in-law who married her sons, who were widowed while still so young, and who suddenly found themselves staring at a road they never imagined: a move to Canaan, a future without their husbands, a life stripped of anything familiar.

I wonder if they, too, once dreamed of ordinary things—of growing old with the men they loved, of raising children in the neighborhoods where they themselves had played, of a life predictable on Moabite soil. All of it disappeared. Their expectations shattered like pottery at their feet.

I know something of that shattering. My own life has been dotted with surprises—some bright, some dark. “You’ll never believe what’s happened since I last saw you,” has become the opening line to so many conversations with friends. Good news, bad news, and the kind of news that leaves you wordless—all of it has had the power to knock me off balance. No warning. No time to prepare.

And maybe that’s you, too. A mother blindsided by a doctor’s voice saying the word leukemia. A parent stunned to hear their child is marrying someone far from ideal. A father who thought his job would carry him into retirement only to be handed a pink slip. A church member watching a beloved pastor fall from grace. These moments come like such a blow. They leave us disoriented, breathless, and staggering.

But even here, there is a greater reality. We must know the One who promises to be our Anchor. Nothing ever catches Him off guard. My life is held safely in His hands, even when my footing feels uncertain. I am safe in God’s keeping. When everything around me shifts and I can’t even trace the contours of what holds me, still I know that He does. His plans were written long before my first breath, and they remain the sure ground beneath my feet.

Lord, I’m standing here without answers, without control—but not without You. I’m breathing. Amen

When (Naomi) heard that the LORD had come to the aid of His people in Judah by providing food for them, she prepared to go home. Ruth 1:6

The land of Canaan had fallen into spiritual darkness. God’s people had forsaken the faith of their fathers, choosing instead the barren path of disobedience. And God, in His righteousness, allowed them to taste the consequences of their sin.

Famine was one of His judgments—measured, purposeful, and meant to awaken hearts that had grown dull. It was that famine that drove Naomi and her family to Moab years earlier. But now, news reached her that bread once again filled the fields of Judah. God was moving among His people, pouring out blessing and favor not because they deserved it, but because His mercy had triumphed over judgment.

How unlike God we often are. Human nature clings to its grudges and keeps score. There are some offenses others will never release, some mistakes for which no door of grace reopens. Cross another person the wrong way, and reconciliation may never come. Forgiveness is withheld, peace postponed until their heart finally softens. Even the church, at times, mirrors this hardness—marking people by their past and quietly reminding them where they came from.

But God is not like us. When I sin, His presence feels distant—not because He has turned away in disgust, but because He is inviting me to turn back in humility. His discipline is never cruel. It is not punishment for punishment’s sake, but a holy kindness meant to restore what rebellion has broken. He is not vindictive, nor does He wound to make me pay. Every act of correction carries purpose: to bring me home.

Lord, thank You that Your mercy always finds me before judgment does. When I wander, do not let shame keep me from coming home. Amen

Now Elimelech, Naomi’s husband, died, and she was left with her two sons. Ruth 1:3

Naomi followed her husband to Moab with their two sons. Not long after, death stole him away, leaving her in a foreign land with only her boys. She was far from home, cut off from family, and surrounded by strangers. Death is always a mountain to climb, and its grip feels colder when no hand is there to steady you. Naomi was alone.

I know what it is to follow someone’s lead and end up stranded in a barren place. To defer, only to discover that another’s choice has carried me into storm and shipwreck. When the path bends toward loss, bitterness whispers: “Look what you’ve done to me.” Shame echoes back in self-talk: “How foolish I was to trust.” Did Naomi wrestle with such thoughts? Scripture is silent. But human hearts are not and I am well acquainted.

You and I both have scars from trusting when we should not have. If life offered a rewind, we would choose differently. Yet here is hope: God is never stranded when we are stranded. He is not bound to a single road. He builds highways in wastelands, carves paths through thorns, and surprises us with streams of water in the desert. What feels like the end of the story is often only the beginning of His.

When I see no way of escape, my eyesight is simply limited. You will not only lead me out, but whisper wisdom in my ears while on the journey. Thank You, my Lord. Amen

In the days when the judges ruled, there was a famine in the land, and a man from Bethlehem in Judah, together with his wife and two sons, went to live for a while in the country of Moab. The man’s name was Elimelech, his wife’s name Naomi. Ruth 1:1,2

After Israel entered the Promised Land, they settled into ease. A new generation was born, one that had never trudged the desert, never known hunger or battle. They lived in comfort—but they did not know the Lord. The miracles that carried their fathers through wilderness and war faded into distant memory. The landscape of faith grew barren. Israel plunged headlong into three hundred years of spiritual night.

It is here, in this backdrop of silence and famine, that Elimelech and Naomi’s story begins. Bethlehem—the house of bread—was emptied of bread. Hunger drove them into Moab, a land God had forbidden. They left searching for fullness, but found only sorrow. Tragedy met them in that foreign place, and their losses would become the dark soil out of which God would one day bring redemption.

God had led them into a hallway of transition. Behind them the door of familiarity closed; before them, another door flickered faintly with light, though the distance was shadowed and uncertain. They stood in the in-between—disoriented, fearful, stripped of control. For Naomi, it would be a season of bitterness, instability, and grief. Yet in that darkness, God was at work. What seemed like silence was preparation. What felt like loss was making room for joy.

I have walked that hallway, too. When the props I leaned on collapsed, when fear froze me in place, I had nowhere to turn but God. And in the dark, He spoke. He untangled lies I had believed, revealed the fault lines in my faith, and rewrote the hidden scripts of my heart. A hallway is not wasted wilderness. It is holy ground—if we let God meet us there. For Naomi it was. For me it was. And for anyone who dares to stay and not run, it still can be.

I needed the dark to see my need for You. Loving Father, Your ways, though they looked severe, were most kind. Amen