Mara, Not Naomi: When Bitterness Gets a Name
Reading the Book of Ruth, Ruth herself often takes center stage—her choices, her resilience, her place in the ancestry of David. But this time through, I found myself watching Naomi. Her story is quieter, less dramatic, but there’s a lot happening beneath the surface.
"Just Call Me Bitter"
At the beginning of the book, Naomi has just endured enormous loss. Her husband has died. Both of her sons have died. She's far from home in Moab, and the future is uncertain. When she finally returns to Bethlehem, the women there greet her by name. But Naomi says, "Don’t call me Naomi—call me Mara," which means bitter. She goes on to say that her life has been made empty, and she directly attributes her suffering to the actions of God.
That moment raised questions for me. In a book where divine intervention is subtle or almost absent, why does Naomi speak so plainly about being afflicted? She isn’t gentle in her language. She doesn’t seem interested in softening what she’s feeling. Her honesty is almost jarring, especially compared to how reserved the tone of the narrative tends to be.
No Lightning Bolts, No Corrections
What’s even more interesting is that the text doesn’t correct or explain her statement. There is no immediate resolution, no commentary telling us how to interpret her claim. Her grief is left as it is. That feels rare.
From Bitter to... Babysitter?
Later in the story, Naomi becomes more active again. She guides Ruth through the cultural customs around marriage and inheritance. She looks out for Ruth’s safety. And eventually, she becomes the caretaker of Ruth's child, Obed. The women of the town surround Naomi and speak of the birth as a kind of redemption, a way of restoring her life after all the loss. But even in that moment, there's no big emotional shift recorded from Naomi herself. The restoration, if that’s the right word, is quiet.
No Neat Bows, Just Open Ends
This makes me wonder: what does it mean to tell a story that begins with bitterness and ends with something like comfort, without ever rushing to resolution? Naomi’s grief isn’t erased. Her pain isn’t forgotten. But she is still part of a story that moves forward.
It also raises questions about how grief and identity are tied together. When Naomi renames herself, is she redefining who she is? Or just marking the weight of what she’s been through? And if she never changes her name back, what does that say about how healing actually looks?
There’s no one answer here, and maybe that’s part of what makes the story stick. It lets discomfort and complexity stay in the room. Naomi doesn’t become cheerful, and her story doesn’t get a neat conclusion. But she does remain present. That feels significant, even if I’m not sure what it all means yet.