The news of Naomi's pregnancy spread like the fragrance of new bread—quietly, steadily, and irresistible to those with a nose for change. Life in Bethlehem slowed whenever she passed by, eyes drawn to her with a mix of admiration, curiosity, and envy. Naomi walked among the women of the marketplace, her stride as purposeful as ever despite the child growing within her.
She paused by the merchant of oils, her hand steady as she inspected the rich liquid in its clay jar. "Olive oil for the lamp and a measure for cooking, if you please."
The merchant's wife, a sharp-eyed woman with a fondness for gossip, filled the order with slow deliberation. "Your husband," she began, her tone laden with unspoken thoughts, "is a righteous man to see to the poor so generously in these days." She glanced at Naomi's growing belly. "And wise to guard his wife's strength while she carries his seed."
Naomi's hand tightened on her basket. She looked up sharply. "Elimelech serves Jehovah's will, as do we all."
The woman's smile turned sly. "And have you chosen a name for the child?"
Naomi's throat tightened. She managed a calm, "The name belongs to the Lord. We wait on Him."
The question gnawed at her as she left the market. When had waiting ever been enough for her?
That evening, she sat by the hearth, the light flickering against the worn stones of their home. Her fingers rested on her belly, tracing idle patterns as the fire crackled low. When Elimelech entered, the air shifted with his presence, strong and sure as the cedars of Lebanon.
"You've been to the elders," she said, her voice quiet.
He came to her, knelt with the ease of a man who knew his place was beside her always. He took her hands, kissed her fingertips, and met her gaze. "I have spoken with them. You will no longer bake or serve until the child is born."
Naomi frowned. "And the poor?"
"The poor will have bread." His voice was firm, carrying the weight of a man who had already planned each step. "I will give more grain than before, and Simon—may Jehovah bless his union—will provide for the widows until the wedding feast is over."
Her eyes softened, but the tension did not leave her. "It feels wrong to be still."
"You are not still," he murmured, placing his hand over hers where it rested on her womb. "You are building life. Let me labor. You are my crown, Naomi. Wear your blessing in peace."
That night, with the fire burned low and shadows dancing along the walls, he asked softly, "If it is a son, what name shall we give him?"
She hesitated, then spoke the name with reverence: "Mahlon. For Jehovah's gift endures."
Five Months passed and the heat of late summer bore down on the house, thick as honey. Naomi rested in the shade of the courtyard, her feet propped on a stool, her swollen ankles wrapped in cool cloths. Three maidservants bustled around her. Shua, young and full of questions, fanned her with a palm frond. Zilpah, the steady one, knelt at her feet, her strong hands working away the ache in Naomi's legs. Tirzah, the eldest, brought a cup of mint water to her lips.
"The judge says there will be a drought," Tirzah murmured. "God's hand weighs heavy upon us."
Naomi accepted the water with a frown. "And the harvest?"
"Smaller this year. Perhaps worse to come."
Shua, ever curious, leaned closer. "What of the famine, Mistress? Will Jehovah send rain in time?"
"Only He knows," Naomi answered, her mind turning to Elimelech's recent council.
The topic shifted, as things do when women gather. Shua smirked and whispered, "A son will bring joy to this house—and keep your husband's eyes at home."
Zilpah scoffed. "A son does not keep a man, foolish girl."
Shua pouted. "But a man like Elimelech—"
Tirzah silenced them both with a glance and whispered, "A heart bound by faith does not stray." She stole a glance at Naomi, whose eyes had drifted shut in weariness.
That Night, Elimelech returned late, dust from the fields clinging to his robes. Naomi greeted him with weariness in her bones, but her spirit rose at the sight of him.
He sat beside her, his hand resting on hers. "The judge speaks of famine. It may grow worse."
The words were like a heavy stone in the room.
Naomi met his gaze with steady faith. "Jehovah's will is just."
"Even in suffering?"
"Especially then."
He smiled, weary but comforted. "Sing to me of Zion, my love. Let your voice lift the heaviness from my heart."
She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Will you not sing with me?"
"Only if you lead," he teased.
So, she sang. Her voice was soft at first, then grew:
"Oh, men of war, return!
To Zion, where the light of Jehovah shines!
Lift your eyes to the hills,
For the gates of God's city shall never be broken."
The night folded around them in peace.
******
Nine months had passed since the festival, the birthing chamber was a storm. Naomi's cries pierced the air as sweat poured from her brow. Two midwives rushed about, their hands swift, their voices sharp.
"Towel! Now!"
"Where is the hot water?"
Naomi clutched the sheets, her strength waning, her breath ragged.
"Steady her," barked the elder midwife.
Her mother-in-law's hand was a rock upon her shoulder, grounding her. "You are strong, Naomi. Jehovah is with you."
Outside the door, Elimelech paced. His heart thundered with each sound from within.
The storm raged on.
Would it break into dawn—or darkness?