Follow the Thread: Kindness in the Chaos – What Boaz’s Field Teaches Us About Faith and Work

Blog #3 – Kindness in the Chaos: What Boaz’s Field Teaches Us About Faith and Work
🧵 Subtitle: He said “The Lord be with you,” and meant it.

If we were sitting across the coffee table today—coffee in hand, while my toddler used mascara as a marker and somehow gathered every butter knife from the table—I’d want to talk about Boaz.

Not because he’s the leading man in this love story. But because he’s the one who keeps stopping me in my tracks.

He walks onto the scene in Ruth 2 and doesn’t say much. But what he does say?

“The Lord be with you.”

And his workers say, “The Lord bless you.”

Just… pause with me.

This is not a normal workplace greeting. This is not performative spirituality. This is someone who has cultivated a culture of reverence. A field where blessing flows in both directions. A little pocket of shalom in the middle of chaos.

Because remember the setting? “In the days when the judges ruled.” Translation: Everyone was doing what was right in their own eyes. It was violent. Messy. Spiritually dark.

And right there, Boaz is planting seeds of peace.

The Field That Was Different

Boaz’s field wasn’t just a workplace. It was a place of refuge. A place where a Moabite widow could glean safely, drink freely, eat abundantly, and be treated with dignity.

He didn’t just allow Ruth to exist on the margins—he brought her in.

He called her daughter.

He served her lunch.

He gave instructions that protected her—before anything could go wrong.

That’s not just nice. That’s hesed.

Boaz didn’t use his position for power—he used it for peace.

And in doing so, he reflected the heart of a God who sees the vulnerable and makes room at the table.

Where Brokenness and Calling Meet: My Story as an OT

I’ve worked in public schools for years—as an occupational therapist serving students with diverse needs. And I love it. But I’ll be honest: it’s often exhausting.

I’ve sat in meetings where trauma was misunderstood. Where sensory overwhelm was mistaken for defiance. I’ve advocated for children who couldn’t speak for themselves—only to be met with bureaucracy, apathy, or burnout. I’ve left school buildings with tears in my eyes, wondering if any of it mattered.

At some point, I stopped seeing the system as a mission field—and started seeing it as a battlefield I wanted to escape.

But then, through a faith and work program, God gently convicted me. I was reminded: I didn’t become an OT because I believed the world was whole—I became one because it wasn’t. Because brokenness gets in the way of belonging. And my calling is to meet people there.

What if the chaos wasn’t a reason to leave—but a reason to stay?

What if faithfulness looked like presence?

God didn’t place me in a perfect workplace. He placed me in a fractured one—so I could participate in His work of redemption. Not to fix everything. But to show up. To advocate for the child melting down in math class. To be a calm presence in a system marked by urgency.

And I’m not the only one.

Boaz, Me, and You: Faithfulness in the Field

Boaz didn’t lead a nation. He didn’t perform miracles. He ran a field.

But he did it with integrity. He did it with blessing. He did it with hesed.

He cultivated peace in a time of violence.

He led with reverence in a time of rebellion.

And that kind of ordinary faithfulness?

It echoes into eternity.

As Tim Keller once wrote:

“Everyone will be forgotten, nothing we do will make any difference, and all good endeavors… will come to naught—unless there is God. If the God of the Bible exists… then every good endeavor—even the simplest ones, pursued in response to God’s calling—can matter forever.”

That’s why I keep thinking about Boaz.

Because most of life happens in the fields. In classrooms and kitchens and break rooms and therapy sessions. In workplaces where it’s easier to blend in than bless.

But Boaz reminds us: our fields can be sacred ground.

Our influence—however ordinary—can become refuge.

And our calling is not to escape the chaos.

It’s to sow kindness in the middle of it.

So here’s to the field workers.
The ones cultivating peace in unseen places.
The ones speaking blessing instead of burnout.
The ones making room for the outsider.
The ones showing up—not with perfection, but with presence.

You’re part of the story, too.
And God sees your field.