Day 117

Ruth 1–2 | Acts 13:13–52 | Psalm 50

⸻

Some days the darkness presses in so thick you can feel it in your lungs.

Some weeks feel less like a rough patch and more like being pinned to the mat with no way to get up.

This was one of those weeks.

And maybe that’s why Ruth feels like such a breath of fresh air today.

After months in the Old Testament trenches—after violence, betrayal, rebellion—Ruth’s story opens like a soft light in this brutal world.

A widow.

A foreigner.

A daughter-in-law who had every reason to leave—and didn’t.

And her words to Naomi still steal the breath from my lungs:

“Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay.

Your people will be my people, and your God my God.” (Ruth 1:16)

She wasn’t just clinging to Naomi.

She was clinging to Yahweh.

Not because life made sense. It didn’t.

Not because her odds were good. They weren’t.

But because loyalty to the living God mattered more than the life she left behind.

When the Situation Feels Intolerable

The status of a widow in the ancient Middle East wasn’t just difficult—it was often hopeless.

To be widowed was to be exposed.

Unprotected.

Economically helpless.

At the mercy of a society in which survival depended on the protection of a man.

Naomi knew it.

Ruth knew it.

And still, Ruth chose the harder road.

“She happened to come to the part of the field belonging to Boaz…” (Ruth 2:3)

Happened to.

A small phrase.

But not a small reality.

Because Ruth didn’t just stumble into provision. There was nothing happenstance about it.

She walked—one weary, loyal step at a time—into the providence of a sovereign God who was weaving redemption long before she could see it.

And Boaz’s words to her are a balm for the bruised:

“May the Lord reward you… under whose wings you have come to seek refuge.” (Ruth 2:12)

When Darkness Feels Like the Only Thing Closing In

This week, darkness has felt close enough to strangle.

New pain that flares day and night, a constant electric shock through my middle finger as the nerves regenerate and index finger that is relentlessly sore.

Unexpected job uncertainty looming over my family’s future. The medical insurance that will go away with it.

A blowout on the side of the road.

Therapy ending with the words, “no more progress possible until the next surgery.”

Spiraling thoughts about imminent news I haven’t even received yet.

And a new wound I didn’t expect: hearing the heart and soul I’ve poured into this blog—these 116 days of clinging to the Word amid heartache and hurt and helplessness—dismissed as “stupid.”

By yesterday morning, it felt intolerable.

The darkness wasn’t closing in.

It was already suffocating.

And I crumbled.

Driving to Jason’s house for a brake repair, I left him not just with my truck, but with the messy, bleeding edges of a man barely holding it together.

But like Ruth, Jason didn’t run.

He stayed.

Prayed.

Listened.

Then he called Greg, another dear brother, and together they helped lift my eyes again to the God who has never stopped directing my steps—even though all I can see right now is the dirt at my feet.

Providence Doesn’t Always Look Like Progress

There’s a temptation to think that if we’re faithful, God’s providence will feel immediate.

Obvious.

Undeniable.

But sometimes providence looks like “happened to.”

Like the ordinary.

Like small steps through intolerable circumstances.

Ruth didn’t see the end of her story when she clung to Naomi.

I don’t see the end of mine as I sit down at this keyboard today.

But both of us have the same hope:

The providence of a God who doesn’t waste faithfulness—even faithfulness that limps.

The Choice Before Me

I didn’t want to write today’s post.

Truthfully, I woke up believing I was done.

116 was enough.

Enough writing.

Enough wrestling.

Enough exposure.

Enough baring my soul to internet strangers I’ll likely never meet.

But then my wife—faithful, wise, undeservedly good—reminded me:

I don’t do this blog for applause.

I don’t do it for the visitors or the metrics.

I do it because as I wrestle with these words, the Word of God wrestles with and changes me.

Because this place has become the altar where God meets me with mercy in the middle of my mess.

And because even when I can’t see the harvest yet, I still believe it’s worth planting my seeds of surrender.

Under His Wings

The story of Ruth is still unfolding as we leave chapter 2.

Provision has begun.

But the full redemption is still to come.

And so it is with me.

I can’t see the full rescue yet.

But I can choose the same posture Ruth chose:

To walk weary but willing into fields I didn’t plant.

To trust provision I didn’t plan.

To rest under wings I didn’t earn.

Because the God who directed Ruth’s steps into Boaz’s field still directs mine today.

Even when it feels intolerable.

Even when the darkness closes in.

Even when faithfulness feels like the smallest, most fragile act of hope I can offer.

⸻

Lord, when the road becomes unbearable, be the God who carries me. When faith feels faint, let Your wings shelter me. When my loyalty wavers, hold me fast. I don’t need to see the end of the story. I just need to stay under Your wings long enough to see Your goodness again. Help me trust that even today—even in the darkness—Your providence has not stopped weaving redemption into the story You are writing for me.

Amen.