Naomi and Ruth Return to Bethlehem
“Don’t call me Naomi,” she laughs. "The name Means pleasant. I can’t bear the irony. A better name is Mara, don’t you think? I’m empty. God’s dealt bitterly with me.” The chatter stops. Some coughs, some shuffled feet, Then murmurs of condolence take the place Of neighbourly excitement. With a nod She stumbles past, Ruth’s arm around her waist. That night the silent tears escape at last For all that was, for all that might have been. She’s just another woman past her prime With nothing left to hope for. All her dreams Are six foot under. (So she thinks, that is.) But God’s still got a trump card up his sleeve.
I wrote the first iteration of this some time ago and have rewritten it this evening. It’s a story that doesn’t grow old and that can be reflected upon in a thousand different ways. Naomi—perhaps like me sometimes, perhaps like you—thought that she knew how her story would end, thought that tears had triumphed over laughter, but discovered instead that God is the God of hopeless cases, of unexpected plot twists, and of happy endings.