Part 2: Ruth & Boaz

He was the son of a harlot.

Boaz ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. Even after all these years, the words still managed to sting a bit. It didn't matter that he was one of the wealthiest men in Bethlehem. That the rolling hills before him and the land beyond them all belonged to him. None of the men in the village could look past the fact that despite being handsome, eligible and rich, he was still the son of Rahab, a former prostitute. No man in their right mind would want to give their daughter to him in marriage. Unless they were broke. Or had large amounts of debt. Or their daughters were disturbing to the eye. 

Boaz chuckled to himself. He might have been lonely, but never desperate. At least, not enough that he would consider marrying someone simply because no one else wanted them. Besides, he was old fashioned. He wanted to marry for love. Hadn't his father fallen in love with his mother, despite her sordid past? Salmon, one of the bravest men of the tribe of Judah, had done the unthinkable and married the harlot spy from Jericho when she joined the Israelites shortly after the destruction of her city. He had pushed her soiled reputation aside and focused instead on the magnetic pull that lured him towards her, the strangest of all emotions, that wonderfully thrilling thing they called love. 

Boaz wanted to find that kind of love. If he married -- and at the age of forty he was beginning to wonder if perhaps it was a waste of time to even think of it -- he would do so only because he was so enamoured, so enraptured, that he could not fathom living another moment of his life without her. Whoever she was. Wherever she was. Whenever it was that he found her. 

Boaz gulped down the rest of his watered-down wine. Standing up, he walked towards the edge of his rooftop balcony and gazed out at the fields of barley, their golden stalks swaying in the evening breeze in cascading waves. The harvest season had just begun and only a few acres of his crop had been reaped by his band of laborers. There was still much work to be done. Amal, his overseer, would be arriving any moment now to give him an account of all that had transpired for the day. Perhaps he should go and freshen up before he arrived.  

Boaz was about to leave when he noticed a tiny figure walking through his fields. He squinted, trying to decipher the identity of the person, but the sun had already begun its descent and the evening light was fading. It appeared to be a woman and she was sorting through the remnants of the day's harvest.

A gleaner. 

According to their traditions, the poor were allowed to take with them, or glean, any stalks of barley or wheat that were left behind by the workers to keep for their own use. Boaz had always allowed gleaners access to his land during the harvest season but the hour was late and the rest of the gleaners had long since left.

"Good evening, my lord." Boaz turned to Amal, who had just arrived. He smiled at the older man and clapped him on the shoulder. 

"May the Lord be with you," Boaz replied before turning back to the strange woman working in his fields.

"Amal, do you know who she is?" he asked, pointing at the lone figure.

"Her? Oh, she's a foreigner. Her name is Ruth. She's Naomi's daughter-in-law and they just recently arrived from Moab."

"Naomi? The wife of Elimelech?"

"You mean the widow of Elimelech. Apparently he died a few years ago. So did Naomi's two boys."

"Mahlon and Chilion?" Boaz asked curiously. He had known both when they were children. Elimelech had worked for Boaz' father before he had moved his wife to Moab in search of greater fortune.

"Yes. Quite a tragedy from what I hear. That one there is Mahlon's widow," he said. "She refused to leave Naomi and came with her to Bethlehem, even though her chances of landing another husband here are slim."

"Really? Is she that unappealing?"

"Well, no, my lord. She's quite lovely, actually. Too young and too pretty to be a widow, if you ask me. But she's a foreigner. From Moab." Amal shrugged. "No one from around here would marry a foreigner. Especially with so many pretty young maidens of our own milling about."

Boaz listened to his overseer, his eyes fixed on the slender young woman. He watched as she tied up the last of her bundles. She lay them in her basket and then lifted it up, balancing it gracefully on her head. 

"What did you say her name was again?" Boaz asked. 

"Ruth," Amal responded, "but most people know her as the widow of Moab."

Ruth.

The widow of Moab.

Boaz' curiousity was piqued. He watched her walk way until at last, she disappeared past the stone watchtower that marked the border of his lands.

Boaz turned to his overseer. "Have a seat, Amal," he motioned towards the low-lying bench he had occupied only a few short moments before, "and tell me more about this Ruth..."