The morning sun kissed the earth with gentle warmth, and the fields of Bethlehem stirred to life. Mahlon was the first to rise each day, his small feet pattering softly as he made his way to the corner of the field where his pride grew — a tiny plot with thirty corn plants. Elimelech had smiled with quiet pride when he marked out the space, knowing that lessons of labor and patience began with soil and seed.
Mahlon bent low, inspecting each green stalk with a frown of concentration far too serious for his age. He scooped a handful of loose dirt, packing it firmly around the base of a drooping stem, then ran his fingers across the soft silken threads of forming corn. His lips pursed in contemplation as he whispered a prayer, just as his mother taught him, "Jehovah bless this harvest."
A grunt escaped his small chest as he lifted two buckets that could barely hold enough water for his plants. Strung across his thin shoulders was a yoke carved by his father, light enough for a boy but heavy enough to test his resolve. He wobbled under the load but pushed on, barefooted and determined.
The path to the river twisted through the fields, dusty and warm underfoot. It was a long walk, almost too far for a child, but Mahlon's heart swelled with the pride of knowing the way. As he neared the water's edge, the sound of women's chatter rose above the rustling reeds.
"Mahlon!" one of the women called, her voice bright with fondness. "Fetching water for your mighty fields?"
The boy nodded solemnly, though a shy grin tugged at his mouth.
Another woman, balancing a heavy jar on her hip, clucked her tongue playfully. "Such a hard worker! Tell me, will you plant figs next?"
Mahlon straightened as best he could under the weight of the buckets. "Corn first," he answered with all the seriousness of a grown man. "Then maybe figs."
Laughter rippled around him as he filled his buckets, careful not to spill a drop. He watched the water swirl and glisten before setting off again, each step a battle between gravity and grit.
---
Back at the fields, the workers paused, wiping sweat from their brows to watch the little boy hauling his burden across the uneven ground.
"Little master, you'll be the strongest man in all of Judah if you keep this up," one teased, his sun-darkened face creased with a grin.
"Don't spill it now, Mahlon," another called. "Water's precious as gold!"
The boy grinned but kept his eyes on the ground. When he reached his plot, he poured the water slowly, guiding the stream to every thirsty root. He repeated the journey twice more, each trip heavier than the last. By the third return, he dropped the yoke with a thud, falling beside his corn in a heap of exhaustion. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath a mix of triumph and fatigue.
Zimri, a kind-eyed elder, passed by with a chuckle. "Rest now, lad. No shame in it. The land is patient."
Mahlon nodded, eyes half-closed, before crawling to sit upright. "The land is patient," he echoed, the words shaping into wisdom in his young mind.
---
When his corn was watered, Mahlon trudged to the granary where his father worked. The air inside smelled of dust and wheat, the rhythm of labor steady and methodical. Elimelech bent over a wooden table, a stylus in hand as he marked tallies on parchment.
Mahlon approached quietly, eyes wide with curiosity.
"Ready for your sums?" Elimelech asked, setting down his quill.
The boy brightened and nodded eagerly.
"If three farmers bring four sacks each, how many sacks do we have?"
Mahlon furrowed his brow, counting on his fingers. "Three, six, nine…" He paused, scrunching his nose. "Twelve!"
Elimelech's laugh was deep and warm. "Good! Now, if we divide those twelve sacks among four families…"
"That's harder," Mahlon whispered, his fingers curling and uncurling as he counted again.
"Take your time," his father said, placing a steadying hand on the boy's head. "Even a king cannot rush wisdom."
Mahlon stared at the marks on the parchment, then suddenly clapped his hands together. "Three sacks each!"
Elimelech grinned. "Exactly. You see, patience bears fruit—just like your corn." He ruffled Mahlon's hair, earning a giggle.
Mahlon looked up, eyes shining with questions. "Will I be a farmer like you?"
"You can be whatever your heart leads you to," Elimelech said. "But remember—whether you farm, trade, or judge—you must always tend the fields of your soul first."
Mahlon pondered this quietly before his eyes drifted to the distant horizon. "Will it rain soon, Abba?" Mahlon who had never experienced rain asked.
The question hung in the air. Elimelech paused, his gaze heavy as it turned toward the cloudless sky. "Jehovah willing," he murmured.
The silence that followed spoke of hope and worry entwined—two threads woven into the tapestry of a farmer's life. Elimelech pulled his son close, resting a hand on his small shoulder, and together, they stared into the unyielding sky, waiting for answers that only time would reveal.
---
Naomi lay on a cushioned mat in the courtyard, her growing belly rising like a hill beneath her tunic. The sky darkened, stars blinking into place as the cool of evening settled around them. Mahlon played with a wooden toy nearby, while Elimelech sat beside his wife, watching the glow of the oil lamp dance across her face.
"I can't sleep," Naomi sighed, turning to face him. "Not at night. The baby stirs when I want to rest and sleeps when the sun rises."
Elimelech chuckled, reaching to smooth a strand of hair from her cheek. "Perhaps this child will be a night watchman."
"Or a thief," she teased, placing a hand on her belly as it shifted under her touch. "Why did no one tell me the second time would be harder?"
"I did," he said with a grin. "But you called me a coward."
She groaned, smacking his arm lightly. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"I enjoy watching you," he admitted. "It reminds me that even in struggle, there is life."
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, they sat in comfortable silence. The night breeze carried the scent of jasmine, and the laughter of their son filled the air.
"Will it be a girl?" she wondered aloud.
"Elder Zachary thinks so," Elimelech said.
"And you?"
"I think only that I want you safe." His voice, though steady, held a trace of the fear that had not left him since her last labor.
She reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his. "Jehovah has been kind to us, Elimelech. Trust that He will be kind again."
---
As Naomi's belly grew, so did the whispers of certain famine. The rains did not come. The sky remained a relentless, searing blue. Fields yielded less with each harvest, and the grain stores dwindled. Fear settled like dust over the village.
But within their home, there was still laughter. Mahlon, tired from a day of work and learning, curled against his mother's side as she hummed softly. Elimelech watched over them, his heart full and heavy, the weight of blessing and burden balanced on a knife's edge.