The sun blazed over Bethlehem, but the earth was dry, cracked, and bare. The once-flourishing land of Judah groaned with hunger. Famine had wrapped its cold fingers around the hearts of its people, and Elimelek, a man of standing, knew what must be done.
"We leave tonight," he whispered to his wife, Naomi, his hand gripping hers in the candlelight.
"To Moab?" Naomi's voice trembled. "Our enemies?"
He nodded. "There's food there, Naomi. For you. For the boys."
And so they fled. Elimelek, Naomi, and their two sons—Mahlon and Kilion—traveled eastward, leaving their promised land behind.
In Moab, foreign gods watched from their carved thrones. Yet life seemed stable. Until Elimelek died.
Naomi wore widowhood like a garment of ash.
Her sons married Moabite women—Orpah and Ruth—and for ten years, they lived as a blended family. But then Mahlon and Kilion also died.
Three graves.
One broken woman.
And two daughters-in-law kneeling at her feet.