I woke up recently with the weight of anxiety pressing against my chest. My thoughts spiraled before I even opened my eyes. I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to feel. I didn’t want to choose hope, because hope felt dishonest.
As someone who lives with an anxiety disorder and has wrestled with acute depression, I know what it’s like to interpret the world through a bitter lens. When pain is loud and hope is quiet, I begin to wonder: Is God truly good? Is He kind? Or is He distant, harsh, and mostly disappointed?
In those moments I find myself not unlike Naomi, who, after losing everything, insisted on a new name: “Do not call me Naomi,” she said; “call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me” (Ruth 1:20). Her theology had become shaped by her circumstances. And honestly? I get it.
But Naomi’s story doesn’t end with bitterness, and neither does ours. That’s why this lesson, tucked into a quarter on prophecy, is such a gift. Ruth and Esther aren’t typically considered prophetic books, but they show us what prophecy is supposed to do: reveal the heart of God. These two stories remind us that even in a fallen world the character of God is profoundly kind. And in every generation, including ours, we are invited to choose how we see Him.
Ruth: Kindness in the Midst of Loss
The book of Ruth opens on empty fields and empty arms. A famine leads Naomi’s family to relocate to Moab, where her husband and sons eventually die. Alone and destitute, Naomi prepares to return to Bethlehem. She tells her daughters-in-law to stay behind. One does. But Ruth, with stunning loyalty, replies, “Wherever you go, I will go . . . ; your people shall be my people, and your God, my God” (Ruth 1:16).
In a culture in which widows were vulnerable and foreign widows even more so, Ruth binds herself to Naomi, not out of obligation, but out of love. And in Bethlehem her story unfolds with quiet, redemptive beauty. Ruth goes out to glean in the fields and “just so happens” to end up in the field of Boaz—a man of standing, integrity, and kinship to Naomi’s family line.
Boaz doesn’t just follow the law regarding gleaners—He exceeds it. He protects Ruth, honors her, and provides for her. When she later approaches him in an act of trust and vulnerability, he again responds not with exploitation but blessing. Eventually he redeems both Ruth and Naomi.
Boaz is what Scripture calls a “kinsman-redeemer,” someone who steps in to rescue a relative from poverty or loss. In this he is a type of Christ—a redeemer who sees, cares, and acts with kindness and covenantal love. When he had an opportunity to condemn, he redeemed instead.
Sometimes faith doesn’t look like parting seas—it looks like showing up when God feels quiet.
“God might have sent His Son into the world to condemn the world. But amazing grace! Christ came to save, not to destroy. . . . How much the Father loved us we can never compute. There is no standard with which to compare it.”[1]
Ruth’s story is prophetic, not because of beasts or timelines, but because it reveals the character of our Redeemer. And it reminds us that even in bitter seasons God’s kindness still finds us.
Esther: Courage in the Midst of Crisis
While Ruth’s story takes place in the quiet fields of Bethlehem, Esther’s unfolds in the high-stakes pressure of a palace. She’s a young Jewish woman caught in an empire not her own, chosen as queen through a process she didn’t ask to be part of, and soon faces a death decree that threatens her people. There is no altar. No prophet. No miracle. Just tension and risk.
I think that’s what makes Esther’s story hit differently for me now. Because sometimes faith doesn’t look like parting seas—it looks like showing up when God feels quiet. Sometimes, trusting Him means walking into rooms that could break you. Sometimes it means standing still in the unknown with only a whispered prayer and a trembling yes.
When Mordecai tells Esther, “Who knows whether you have come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:14), he’s not making a promise—he’s inviting her to faith. And she chooses it. Not because she’s sure, but because she’s surrendered.
Esther fasts. Prays. Risks. She doesn’t have certainty. She walks forward anyway. And somehow, through her trembling courage, deliverance comes.
There are no divine voices in the book of Esther. No signs from heaven. But God is there—in the sleeplessness of a king, in the timing of conversations, in the reversal of evil. His name isn’t mentioned, but His mercy is woven into every scene. It’s the kind of story that reminds me: just because I can’t hear God doesn’t mean He’s not speaking. Just because I don’t see Him doesn’t mean He’s not near.
This is what prophecy is meant to do: not just tell us what’s coming, but remind us who God is when it feels like He’s not. Prophecy is not always loud. Sometimes it’s a hidden rescue unfolding in silence.
And when we’re standing in that silence—unsure, afraid, wondering if our presence even matters—God still gently poses the same question He once gave Esther: Could it be that you’re here, in this place, in this moment, for a reason?
“To every household and every school, to every parent, teacher, and child upon whom has shone the light of the gospel, comes at this crisis the question put to Esther the queen . . . , ‘Who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?’ ”[2]
It’s an invitation. A reminder that God’s kindness often flows through people willing to show up, even when they don’t feel strong. That question lives in my mind often. When my anxiety peaks. When the world feels terrifying. When I’m tempted to protect myself instead of showing up. But God’s kindness doesn’t always come through thunder. Sometimes it comes through a quiet strength not our own.
The Prophetic Pattern: Crisis Plus Hope
There’s a common pattern in prophecy: God reveals the mess caused by human rebellion. He names the consequences. But He never leaves us there. He always, always holds out hope.
And yet, how often do we focus on the crisis and forget the kindness?
Prophecy is not always loud. Sometimes it’s a hidden rescue unfolding in silence.
Maybe it’s because we’re afraid. Or maybe, like Naomi, we’ve just been through too much. Life has been hard. The world is broken. And we’ve begun to wonder if God might be the one behind the famine, not just the one who feeds us.
But reality is clear: that shadow we’ve learned to live under? It’s not from God.
“Satan led men to conceive of God as a being whose chief attribute is stern justice—one who is a severe judge, a harsh, exacting creditor. . . . It was to remove this dark shadow, by revealing to the world the infinite love of God, that Jesus came to live among men.”[3]
This false picture—that God is mostly angry, mostly disappointed, mostly watching for mistakes—is still alive today. But it’s not the truth. The truth is what we see in Ruth and Boaz. In Esther and Mordecai. In the cross of Christ.
I’ve found that my own mental health struggles often distort my view of God. Depression whispers that He is absent. Anxiety insists that He is harsh. These aren’t just feelings; they’re theological battles. Sometimes I wonder if I’m too much for God. Too fragile. Too fearful. Too behind.
But the truth is, my anxiety and depression are no match for His love. His kindness is infinite. His love is unchanging. It is wide enough to hold all of me.
“All the paternal love which has come down from generation to generation through the channel of human hearts, all the springs of tenderness which have opened in the souls of men, are but as a tiny rill to the boundless ocean when compared with the infinite, exhaustless love of God. . . . You may study that love for ages; yet you can never fully comprehend the length and the breadth, the depth and the height, of the love of God in giving His Son to die for the world. Eternity itself can never fully reveal it.”[4]
This love is not earned. Not optimized. Not reserved for the unbothered or the brave. It’s who He is. And it’s what prophecy is meant to point us toward: a God whose love outlasts every famine, every exile, every fearful night.
The Choice We Still Have
When we read prophecy, or live through it, we are invited to choose: will we fixate on fear, or trust the One who has always delivered?
Ruth chose loyalty over self-preservation. Esther chose courage over safety. Naomi eventually chose trust over bitterness. And we too are given a choice. Not to ignore the pain. Not to pretend the world isn’t broken. But to decide what kind of God we believe is with us in the midst of it.
I used to be afraid of Revelation. The beasts, the plagues, the judgment—it all felt too heavy. But over time something shifted. I began to notice what was always there at the center: the point of the story isn’t the beasts. It’s the Lamb.
I still have bad days. My thoughts still spiral. Sometimes I still feel like Naomi: as though the pain has been too much and the story is already over.
But then I remember Ruth. I remember Esther. I remember Jesus. And I choose—again and again—to believe that God is not harsh. He is kind. That His love is infinite, exhaustless. That His silence does not mean absence. That prophecy is not a threat—it’s an invitation to see the heart of God more clearly.
I’ve experienced too much of His kindness to call Him cruel.
So I will keep choosing hope. I will keep choosing truth. I will keep choosing to believe in the better story, the truer story—the one in which a Redeemer comes not to destroy, but to save.
Maybe that’s all we need to do: keep choosing the Lamb.
[1] Ellen G. White, Mind, Character, and Personality (Nashville: Southern Pub. Assn., 1977), vol. 1, pp. 249, 250.
[2] Ellen G. White, The Adventist Home (Nashville: Southern Pub. Assn., 1952), pp. 484, 485.
[3] E. G. White, Mind, Character, and Personality, vol. 1, p. 250.
[4] Ibid., pp. 251, 252.