When cleaning out my closets and going through some binders, I found this story I wrote for a writing workshop. We were supposed to write about 'One Small Blade'. Anyway, here's my version:
One small blade was all that was left. Somehow, the scythe had missed it and left it standing, a soldier upright in a now barren field. Ruth's eyes swept across the golden stubble of the wheatfield. There was not enough left to feed two hungry peopel- why had she come? She walked across the prickly stalks, their sharp edges clinging to her homespun skirt. She should not have come here - she should have stayed in Moab. In her father's house, there was always plenty to eat. Here in Bethlehem, each mouthful had to be scrounged up somewhere. Each mouthful was a blessing.
A blessing.
That was what had brought her here to this land. The promise of a blessing. The promised of a God who cared for you, who left you satisfied even after a drought left you hungry and the plague left you a widow. Jehovah. Al Shadeih. Her shade from a merciless, drilling sun. She raised her brown calloused hand to her eyes and gazed through her fingers in the blinding sunlight. Her eyes slide down to the golden stubble of wheat that reflected the rays of the sun.
One single blade of wheat caught her eye. All that the reapers had left. With a sigh, she stepped gingerly in the rough field toward the blade. As her hand grasped the stalk, she looked to the end of the field. Lying in the gold, heavy stalks of wheat lay hidden.
Farther on, other blades glinted in the sun.
One small blade was all that was left. Somehow, the scythe had missed it and left it standing, a soldier upright in a now barren field. Ruth's eyes swept across the golden stubble of the wheatfield. There was not enough left to feed two hungry peopel- why had she come? She walked across the prickly stalks, their sharp edges clinging to her homespun skirt. She should not have come here - she should have stayed in Moab. In her father's house, there was always plenty to eat. Here in Bethlehem, each mouthful had to be scrounged up somewhere. Each mouthful was a blessing.
A blessing.
That was what had brought her here to this land. The promise of a blessing. The promised of a God who cared for you, who left you satisfied even after a drought left you hungry and the plague left you a widow. Jehovah. Al Shadeih. Her shade from a merciless, drilling sun. She raised her brown calloused hand to her eyes and gazed through her fingers in the blinding sunlight. Her eyes slide down to the golden stubble of wheat that reflected the rays of the sun.
One single blade of wheat caught her eye. All that the reapers had left. With a sigh, she stepped gingerly in the rough field toward the blade. As her hand grasped the stalk, she looked to the end of the field. Lying in the gold, heavy stalks of wheat lay hidden.
Farther on, other blades glinted in the sun.