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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

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