Ruth: Reimagined

After

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After
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"Lord," Elimilek whispered, in the dark, out in the open land of his home. He was deeply troubled, the burdens having come to an all-consuming point. "I'm tired." his eyes glazed with tears. Although he was cracking, he was self-aware, turning back constantly, to see if someone stepped out of the house.

For about a month, before his death, Elimilek prayed the same prayer, with those three words, having come to the end of himself-Lord, I'm tired.

And on that fateful night, after Mahlon left in a fit of rage, a deep sigh tore out of Elimilek's chest. The weight of everything brought him to the ground, and he cried out for Yahweh, voice cracking. He wept, the tears trailing down his cheeks, past his beard.

"Lord," there was not much to say, he had no words,he could not express himself, could not explain, he loved his wife dearly, that was his every second thought, but he'd reached the end of his strength. He had dedicated his whole life to the Lord, made him the King of his heart, and now, it was as though he was poured out before Yahweh, like a drink offering. "I'm tired."

And that night, Yahweh heard him

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After Benesh spoke those five harsh words that would change Naomi's life forever, she shut the door in his face. With her back to the door, her heart pounding, she took in shuddering breaths as she slid down the door. And she just sat there, dead quiet in a crouched position, covering her face with her hands.

The knocking on the door persisted, breaking through her walls of safety, but she stayed frozen in place.

When Mahlon stepped out of his room, relief poured into his heart at the sound of knocking-his father was home, then he stopped, the relief choking out of his lungs, at the sight of his mother on the floor.

"Mo-ther?" Mahlon whispered.

Naomi lifted her head, her face, fallen, the warmth in her eyes, non-existent.

"Why aren't you opening the door?"

It was one of those questions you waited for with bated breaths, dreading the unwanted answer.

The knocking became louder. "Naomi, please open the door!" Benesh's voice became desperate.

"Mother, why aren't you opening the door?" Again, he dreaded the answer. The persistent knocking was like a nightmare that chased you after the waking hour.

Naomi held her son's stare, a dead look in her eyes.

With weighted steps towards the door, everything slowed down for Mahlon. My father's okay, and he repeated that thought over and over in his head.

Then the world became fast, with short breaths, and a pounding heart, as he tried to open the door, but his mother stood, prying his hands off, telling him, to 'stop', 'stop!' , that 'there was no one there.'

With a heavy heart, he used his strength to move his mother aside, almost making her fall.

"Mahlon!" She raised her voice when his hand was on the door. "Don't open the door, please. Just don't-" her voice broke.

Mahlon took one last look at the distraught look on his mothers face. "I'm sorry."

Pulling open the door, he spotted Benesh. Alone. Raw eyes. Fallen face.

"Shalom, Mahlon." Benesh greeted his expression, morose.

"Shalom." Mahlon pulled the door open, and Benesh stepped, in the silence, heavy, dreaded.