Charaia Rush pulls us in today with the vulnerable story of her labor and delivery, one of the hardest moments in a woman’s life, and reminds us of the story of Naomi from the book of Ruth: While we are in the midst of suffering, it can feel all-consuming and we can even start to believe we’ve lost our identity to our pain as well. It’s a joy to welcome Charaia to the farm’s table today as we discover the hope Christ gives us even in our darkest moments:

Guest Post by Charaia Rush

 I had been in labor for eight hours. My phone, propped on a tripod, held my husband’s face as he watched from the other side of the world, due to his deployment.

My doula, whom I had met a month prior, held my hand while I worked my way through the contractions that grew closer and harsher. Suddenly I broke down and, with a heavy breath, released the words “I can’t do this.”

My doctor looked at me with eyes both gentle and strong, and my doula pulled me into her chest.

It was as if each woman in the room knew that my proclamation of defeat was about much more than this moment and had been given a preview into my journey up until that point.

A journey that started when my husband left for seven months to join the military, only to confess after his return that he had been unfaithful during his time away. A journey that was filled with me uttering “It’s ok, I forgive you”—a knee-­jerk reaction to desperately save my marriage because divorce was never an option for me. It’s like each of the women in the room knew that each tear they were witnessing carried a heartbreaking scene from this season. 

Though they knew none of the details of this season, they held me like they did.

They covered me when we all glanced at my phone and witnessed my husband sleeping. They smiled weakly when I shouted, “I love you!” to him through the tears as I held our daughter—­and was met with silence before he muttered he was tired and the call ended.

The book of Ruth begins by introducing us to Naomi. Her husband, Elimelech, takes her and their two sons out of Bethlehem and toward Moab. They leave the promised land of Israel to head back into the wilderness from which they’d been delivered.

After they arrive, both sons marry, but then Elimelech and his two sons die, leaving Naomi in the most disadvantaged class in the ancient world: a childless widow with no man to claim her as his own daughter or wife or mother.

Desperate for redemption in a very bleak situation, Naomi plans to return to Bethlehem, for she “heard in Moab that the Lord had come to the aid of his people by providing food for them” (Ruth 1:6 NIV). Even in this tragic situation, she knows there is no hope found by moving farther away from God. The story continues with Ruth, one of her daughters-­in-­law, proclaiming her loyalty and accompanying Naomi back to her homeland.

“Even in this tragic situation, she knows there is no hope found by moving farther away from God. “

Naomi and Ruth’s trek back to Bethlehem is extremely dangerous. They likely are traveling during the late summer, through the Judean wilderness near the Dead Sea. Aside from the environmental threats, this is not a safe journey for two women alone. And yet, the knowledge that she’s heading toward the very thing she needs makes Naomi both willing and brave.

When they enter Bethlehem, “the whole town was excited about their arrival” (v. 19). Naomi is known among her people, and her arrival brings excitement. But soon their initial joy is hushed as they ask one another, “Can this be Naomi?” Naomi’s pain spills out of her being. So it’s no surprise she responds this way:

“Don’t call me Naomi. Call me Mara,” she answered, “for the Almighty has made me very bitter. I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty. Why do you call me Naomi, since the Lord has opposed me, and the Almighty has afflicted me?” (vv. 20–21)

Naomi’s confession—­her Mara moment—­represents a crossroads and a choice made between three paths in response to her suffering. One path can only be walked if Naomi believes her identity is wrapped in her pain. The second path is one of following the road of denial.

Finally, the last path is filled with rock and gravel that whisper for her to offer up the truth of her pain with hope that God can enter it.

We all face such a crossroads in our pain.

We can deny the pain altogether, let our pain name us and overshadow our true identity, or openly cry out and name our pain to God and let Him hold us. While denial may promise to smooth out the sharp edges of our hearts after breaking, and while settling into our own Mara moment might feel validating for a time, neither of these choices make room for God to enter our personal psalms of honesty.

“We can deny the pain altogether, let our pain name us and overshadow our true identity, or openly cry out and name our pain to God and let Him hold us.”

Ultimately, God with us in our pain is the only thing that can stop the turning of our hearts toward the hard places. When we allow ourselves to be held in our pain, we are free to speak the truth and also wrestle against the urges to deny our pain or claim it as our identity. 

See, Naomi wants to be called a different name. Nestled under her confession is a belief that the sum of her identity is her affliction. But the author of Ruth refuses to accommodate such a lie. We don’t see the author suddenly refer to Naomi the way she refers to herself. By continuing to call her Naomi instead of Mara, the biblical author, like Christ, upholds the truth that we are not the sum of the worst things that have happened to us.

Where we find ourselves will never change who God died for us to be.

Mended and whole. Soft and pliable. Honest and true.

In Christ, our pain is stripped of having the final say. In Christ, love speaks a louder word over the names we give ourselves in our lowest Mara moments.

---

{Out humble thanks to Baker Books for their partnership in today’s devotional.}